


Black Marion

by jl0281



Category: Original Work
Genre: Amnesia, Complete, Cybercrimes, Cyberpunk, Dystopia, Explicit Sexual Content, Future, Hacking, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Mystery, Obsession, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rating: M, Romance, Science Fiction, Temporary Amnesia, Thriller, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2020-05-12 14:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 141,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19230580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jl0281/pseuds/jl0281
Summary: He woke up on the 999th floor of the Skyworld's richest tower to luxury, affection, and the perfect life. The problem is that Sasha - if that is really his name - can't remember if any of it is real. Vaughn Scio, the powerful regent who claims to be his lover, is certainly hiding something.





	1. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This rewrite of Black Marion is dedicated to all my original readers on Fictionpress, and in particular to Anony, Nina, TriboplasticSkies, dimensionrain, InsanityandBeyond, Sychronergy, Ella, Blue Rose, Vaesen, Shela, and Mikealfaxray for your exceptional support throughout my projects!
> 
> Most of all, this rewrite is for arilou and basilisk6, who not only gave me constant support but wrote more or less essays of feedback every chapter. To this day I'm still not sure where you found the time, and your kindness has blown me away. I hope you guys get to read this!

He became aware first of his thighs, because a cold touch dragged along that skin. Next his eyes, because they burned from the sudden piercing light. A foreign hand jolted away from his body.

Awareness was painful. Dry throat, skullache, dead bones, air clawing inside his stomach. His lashes dragged down his eyelids like each hair was dense metal. His vision seemed to bleed until he realized it was simply a canopy overhead, red satin. A soft blanket laid over his torso, twisted around a leg. He had two legs. He had two arms, with two hands, fingers. The air smelled like lavender and white tea. The temperature was faintly cold.

Something clacked against a hard floor. Furniture screeched. In the lower corner of his vision, a figure rose suddenly.

A woman. She was of middle-age, paled brown skin and scar-eyed. Odd. Thin body, clothed simply, but the fabric didn't look cheap. Her one good eye was wide, an open mouth trying to form words. But no sound. As he looked toward her offending hand—the fingers were coated in a viscous blue sheen—the woman stumbled back. Her hands made stilted motions as if trying to communicate a frantic apology. Her feet pivoted toward the exit.

"Stop—"

Too soft, too rasped. The woman glanced back. He swallowed and meant to try again, but that woman was gone before another word could form. The door closed with a heavy click.

Alone, he became distinctly aware of his breaths.

He looked toward the sunlight. It was coming from the left side of a rounded wall, framing a panel of spotless, spanning clear glass. Outside was midday, with thousands of flying falcon vehicles and winding skylanes cluttering the view of an unfamiliar city. Wrong—far to the west—it was west, it was definitely west—was the Barcase Bridge, so low on the horizon that he must be well within the Skyworld, many hundred floors above the Ground. He knew this landscape.

He didn't know this building. Across was the display of a neighboring tower's skydeck, and engraved onto the skydeck, the logo of a luxury residence. Inside here were rosemary wood walls, maybe real, maybe a holographed decoration. There were red silk curtains. Red silk sheets for the wide, round bed, which could fit four of him. Four of—

Who?

He lifted his hand. This was heavy. His muscles ached. His veined skin was as foreign as the room—the long, slender, groomed hand of a pampered adult. He pressed at his face and found a nose, and lips, and both eyebrows above his eyes. He pulled at his hair and found that he had hair—this overgrown sprawl, black when he tugged a lock into his vision, glossy and recently cleaned.

Then he dropped his hand and stared at the window again, and the disjointed panic began to set in.

He remembered nothing.

_Breathe. Think._

Nothing.

_Who?_

Nothing.

He swallowed. Moved his leg where the pressure had woken him. It was bare up to the sheets that pooled over the upper end of his thigh. An old yellow bruise and a scar colored the side, and where the air touched, his skin was chilled with a fresh coating of gel. He pressed these unfamiliar fingers into the bruise and winced. Pulled those fingers back and cradled them, as if that would somehow claim ownership. At least they felt as cold as his skull.

Down across the bed, moving nightscape holographs hung in sculpted frames along the curving wall. A drawer supported a half dozen framed photos, a mirror angled away from his face, and a small bamboo plant. None of these looked familiar. When he turned right, he saw the shut door, handleless. A cushioned chair beside the bed. Beside the chair, a wide stand. On the stand, marked bottles. Medication? Syringes, too.

He tried to sit up. His body wasn't cooperative; dragging it upright felt like a submerged and viscous process, and his pounding head made nothing easier. Drugs, maybe. Medication?

The sheet slipped off his body. He looked down at a flat chest—realized, with a start, that he was a physical  _he_ —scarring around his abdomen, scarring around his right shoulder. His left arm had the remnant of two deep lines running along inside, vertically—wounds to bleed out from. Had he tried to kill himself? Ah—no; the length of those scars was extraneous for suicide, and the thought of a blade against his skin locked his jaw and stirred his gut—a compulsion to vomit. He didn't know if he had the same aversion to suicide.

Unhinged, he pushed away the bedsheets. He wore underwear, fresh, a faded incision on his right hip. The scar on his thigh indicated a serious puncture. There was another line of incisions around his ankle. It seemed as if the right side of his body had sustained the majority of whatever damage he'd survived.

He looked toward the stand and reached for a bottle. His fingers shook a bit. Grasping the object was difficult, but once he brought it back, reading was relievingly simple. This clear blue bottle contained liquid, and the label read,  _Calcium Gluconate (10%), For Injection, SSP._ He checked his inner elbow and found a dotting of needle marks—several weeks' worth, if he counted both arms.

He set the bottle back and picked up another. As he brought it closer, the door clicked open. Startled, his hand slipped. The bottle fell to the ground and rolled down under the bed.

He looked up.

A man this time. Tall, almost certainly taller than his own body seemed to be; broad, a lean and muscled broadness. This man wore black pants and a collared mulberry shirt, fabric that curved with rich luxury, presented as neatly as his short peppered hair. He had stubble, intentional, bronzed skin spread over bold bones and an air of authority.

This man halted for a moment at the entrance.

"Sasha."

He blinked. The man walked closer. He pulled the blanket back over his body and watched warily as the man moved the chair aside and leaned over the edge of the bed. It was all one fluid movement—the hand reaching for his cheek, the shadow covering too much, the eyes falling down to his mouth and the mouth nearing with a clear intent. He withdrew in instinctive panic.

The man stopped and pulled back. "Sasha?"

Sasha, if that was his name, turned and saw the man too close. This man's lashes were countable at such a distance; the lines of his gray eyes too, and the lines within his skin—faint, but the age was present.

"Who are you?"

The man seemed struck. His fingers came slowly toward Sasha's cheek. Sasha grabbed those fingers, the sudden motion stinging his muscles.

"Who are you?" he said again, harder.

The fingers in his hand tightened. Loosened. A soft breath escaped the man's lips.

"You don't remember me."

His voice had a lost and pained touch. Sasha searched his handsome face and felt only an indefinable impression—a wariness, maybe more than wariness, discomfort far in his gut, but also some intrinsic fascination and a vague desire to keep him near. No details beneath the impression.

"No."

The man's jaw tensed. A moment later, his hand settled on the mattress and he looked perfectly calm.

"No, it's fine. It's good to have you back." He smiled. The smile faded. "What do you remember?"  

Sasha looked around the room. He knew that the man had felt his pulse throbbing in his palm, which was hard, fast, and scared, despite the sluggishness in his body that came from some kind of therapeutic medication. He looked out the window and pulled together what little he knew, which was nothing apart from what he saw and inferred.

"Are you a doctor?"

The man frowned. "No. Would you like to see one?"

It was strange then. Sasha must have been in a coma. If his caretaker could afford a room like this, then he should either be under the careful watch of a hospital, or monitored privately by a licensed practitioner—which was neither the woman who'd left him in untrained fright nor the man before him now.

He shook his head. Deliberated a moment longer, and then said, "I don't remember anything."

The man was still. After a moment, the man stood and disappeared behind the walled headboard of the bed. There must be an adjacent room by the sound of his footsteps. Water ran briefly. Another few seconds, and the man returned to offer a glass of water.

Sasha eyed it for a second. Deciding there was little risk, he took it and drank. The cool liquid was a relief for his throat. He handed an empty glass to the man. The man set it on the stand, then sat on the edge of the bed.

"Your name is Alexander Davis-Myeong," said the man.

He waited for the man to continue.

The man's mouth fell slightly, but he did continue.

"Your friends call you Alex. You work priority investigation and development at CyberSec. You're twenty-nine years old. Your birthday was two weeks ago. You've been living with me for about eight months now." He frowned again. "You must remember something, Sasha."

Sasha, or Alexander, or Alex, found nothing familiar about any of this information. He said, "You should start with the year."

The man stared at him. "2586. September 3rd."

2586—that was familiar to the decade. The month and date left no impression.

"On June 16th," said the man, slowly, "you were flying out to meet me by the Imperial. There was an accident by the midground loading docks. You were caught in it."

Sasha watched the man.

"Russian?"

The man seemed confused.

"You call me by the Russian diminutive of Alexander. Are you from the Ground?"

The man paused. Then the corner of his mouth flickered. "I see that you're as erratic with your conversation as ever."

Sasha stared at an endeared look, a smile that softened those silver eyes. It didn't seem fabricated, but neither did it ease the caution that had his pulse still racing hard.

"Now you've avoided both my questions about you."

The smile fell a bit. The man gazed at him for a moment longer, and then leaned down to pick something off the ground. It was a bottle of gel, probably what the nervous woman had dropped when Sasha woke. The man uncapped the bottle as he said, "My mother was."

The man set the bottle cap on the stand, the bottle on the bed. He then reached for the blanket that hardly covered Sasha's leg. Sasha gripped his hand again before it touched his bruised skin.

"Please don't."

"I just want to help."

"I can do it."

After a brief pause, the man nodded and pulled back. Sasha scooped a fingertip of gel from the bottle, a thick and opaque blue. It smelled like laboratory and mint. He smeared this over his fading bruise, over a jagged scar and surgical incisions. The man watched him the whole time, silent. Uncomfortably intent.

Sasha capped the gel. The man handed him a tissue wipe for his fingers. Taking the sheet, Sasha asked, "Who are you?"

There was a pause. The man's gaze lingered on Sasha's leg. He lifted his eyes and said, "Vaughn. Vaughn Scio."

Chilling.

The cold washed beneath Sasha's skull, the distinct thought that something was not fitting right. He knew that name, but like the way he knew the Barcase Bridge beyond the window glass—not as intimately as those lingering silver eyes suggested.

"The Regent," said Sasha.

Vaughn Scio looked pained. His hand stretched out, and then fell back to his lap.

"No," said Scio, soft. "Just Vaughn for you, love."

Sasha frowned. Love? He traced the lines of the other man's face in silence. Indeed, a kind of desperate warmth thrummed beneath Sasha's skin at Vaughn's presence. But desperate not in the manner of passionate lust or sweet longing—desperate like a naked man in the winter. He did not understand this. He did not understand the accompanying unease.

"I'd like a mirror, please," said Sasha.

Vaughn nodded off and walked to the drawer. He brought back the mirror and handed it over.

Inside was a man, unblemished Sky-bred skin over sculpted Sky-made bones. Intimately foreign. Yet this man blinked and those dark eyes blinked, and Sasha felt a simmering discomfort at the handsome face that was unmistakably his. He brushed back his dark locks. He looked along the base of his hair. He brushed his fingers through three times. He set the mirror aside slowly.

"Sasha?"

He glanced at Vaughn, not meeting his eyes, only the ebony buttons of his shirt. "May I eat? I'm very hungry."

Vaughn took the mirror. He stood with a strange caution in his movement, and said with a calm smile in his voice, "Of course. You've not eaten in weeks. I'll have a meal prepared."

Sasha nodded. He watched Vaughn take the mirror back to the drawer, and his eyes fell to the photographs beside the bamboo plant. That was him in the frames. A man and a woman with a small child. Another of the same man with an older Sasha. Then Vaughn, hand on his shoulder, both of them smiling at the camera. And Vaughn, kissing his cheek beneath the Skyworld night lights and vivid lanes, a loose smile on Sasha's lips as he gazed at the camera.

Lovely, but Sasha's heart wouldn't stop racing with his mind.

The age of his scars didn't match the dates he'd been told, and for a trauma against memory, there were no wounds or scars on his head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skip this note if you're a new reader! For readers of the original who are curious about major changes - 
> 
> 1) Per feedback from some great reviews, I've upped the Dystopian Freakshow level of the System. It's quite frightening now. 
> 
> 2) Sasha/Alex's timeline of events has changed. Note he is now 29. This changes several things :) 
> 
> 3) Minor character adjustments that result in major functional/relationship changes. 
> 
> 4) Post memory recovery will be essentially written from scratch. The story now, more or less, follows things to their conclusion. And there is an epilogue.


	2. 2

Sasha remembered common facts, such as the number of people in the State: six hundred million on the Ground, two hundred million in the Sky, eight hundred million total in the isolated city-state of a ruined Earth. He remembered history, as long as it was not his own. Human anatomy, medical chemistry, select details of the central nervous system. A strange Korean song about a mountain rabbit, though he had no idea why the foreign lyrics flickered in his head as he stumbled along the windowed hall. City landmarks. Politics.

Politics: Vaughn Scio.

The man supported Sasha with a hand on his arm, a hand at his side, cautious and intimate. He didn't seem to match the vague impression of his name—Vaughn Scio, the Regent, one man among six who governed their eight hundred million with a righteous, undefiable power. In Sasha's hollowed memory, the name Vaughn Scio belonged to a distant man-made god.

This man did not seem so absolute and separated, humanized as he was by his sweet words and soft handling, but that was the eere. If this man was not the Regent he claimed to be, Sasha wouldn't know it yet. And if he was who he claimed to be, then Sasha should be desperate to believe that he was a genuine lover. Else he was as vulnerable as plated fish for the cat.

For the time, he could do nothing but tread carefully. Holding his questions, he filed away the details about this building in silence.

It was a beautiful space. Beyond the bedroom had been a hall lined with historical art: landscape photographs, unmoving, covered by glass in synthetic wooden frames. The ground was marbled black; the ceiling was embedded soft light. Both stretched into a living area with a wide holo at the center for entertainment and a massive aquarium built into the side wall. The fish seemed happy for fish.

Beyond this area was their current space. It was set by the building edge, and the whole left and ceiling were window glass. From this view, Sasha had a better estimate of their elevation, a better visual of their relative location, and a guess about a landmark building that was suitable for a Regent. It was probably the Arleon, the finest residence in the Skyworld.

"Do you remember this view?"

Sasha glanced at Vaughn, who glanced toward the spanning city in gesture.

"No."

"I see." A pause. "Do you like it, at least?"

It was a beautiful city. This high in the sky, it was not possible to see the Ground—not possible to see even the midground. Sasha had vague, impersonal concepts of both as dimmer, dirtier, but those concepts were drowned out by the immediate image of the smooth, winding lanes and wide green platforms, gardens built on hanging decks, the famously architected skybridge that connected the capital district to the corporate sector. It was clutter, but it looked like the abundance of luxury.  

He said to Vaughn, "It's a nice view."

Vaughn stared at him a moment longer. Sasha imagined that he wasn't very satisfied with this answer, uninspired as it was. Sasha didn't think that an amnesiac was obligated to try very hard.

The moment passed. Vaughn's eyes lidded, softer. He said just as softly, "Yes."

They turned under the wide archway of a lush room. Through it was a gardened patio with a round sapphire pool, with long white seats, a cushioned couch. The clear doors slid open at a sweep of Vaughn's hand below the motion sensors. The fresh air was a biting relief—colder than it was inside, and Sasha winced beneath his loose sweater.

Vaughn glanced at him. Once Sasha was seated on a couch, he went to tap at the embedded screen on a wall.  A few moments later, the couch became heated, so soft in its warmth that it was like liquid. Sasha tucked his feet under his legs and closed his eyes.

"I'll be back in a moment."

Sasha opened his eyes to watch the Regent disappear inside the building. He started a count inside his head. Then he turned his gaze down toward the landscape.

Out in the open, among plants, a pool, rich color and cold fresh air and a comfortable heat, his pulse began to calm. Maybe it was orchestrated. Maybe it was just consideration, and Vaughn deserved the benefit of the doubt: he had been kind in these short minutes, more familiar than anything else so far, and those photographs in the bedroom had been suggestive. But counterbalancing these little things were all the larger things to doubt.

For one: the clothes on his body. Vaughn had seemed to be familiar with his aversion to the cold, and in this September weather, had pulled out a light winter sweater from the closet. But the sleeves had no chafing. The rich cotton smelled like factoral mint and rose. The slippers on the ground, flipped deliberately to their bottoms when he had pulled his feet onto the couch, had no wear on their soles.

If Vaughn had been so kind as to buy him additions to an existing closet, Sasha would be grateful. But new things did not help an amnesiac remember old things, and a lover so kind would surely make every effort. So it was odd that with a sigh and some sad eyes, this man had accepted Sasha's amnesia. Was he a good actor, or a bad one? Or simply calm about anything?

Vaughn came back to the patio with a porcelain tray and a gold-rimmed bowl. When he stepped through the doorway, Sasha cut off the count in the back of his head at three hundred and seventy eight. Six minutes, eighteen seconds. He was not sure why he had counted in the first place.

"You'll have to forgive me for serving instant," said Vaughn, placing the tray on the coffee table. The bowl was filled with soft yellow soup. "I'll cook a proper meal for you tonight, but I want you to have something in your stomach first."

Vaughn sat beside him and picked up the soup, stirring. He filled the spoon and blew at the liquid. He lifted it toward Sasha's mouth, the aerosilver hovering with far too much intimacy. Courting a dangerous dependency.

Sasha took the bowl and the spoon from him.

"Thank you."

Vaughn returned a weak smile, relenting the items.

Swallowing, the liquid heat spilled down Sasha's throat. A soft pang in his gut, a rumbling ache. He pressed his hand over the stir.

Vaughn looked down at this. "Does it hurt?"

"A little. It's fine."

But he paused eating for a moment anyway. Resuming the meal, Sasha finished only a quarter of the bowl before the ache became a strain. Despite the intense, starved craving in his chest, he set the soup down. Otherwise, his stomach seemed like it might rupture.

An accident in June indeed.

"What happened to me?"

A pause.

"There was an accident at the midground loading docks," began the Regent, as he had in the bedroom. "We were supposed to meet at the Imperial Tower that evening at eight o'clock. You can't see it from here, but it's a very beautiful construct. Very tall. Traffic up becomes cluttered in the evenings."

Cluttered like a million moving stars, the underside of falcons streaking the sky and lit lanes. Sasha kept this disjointed imagery quiet to listen.

"You were meeting a contact at midground for an investigation and running over time. You were—you become very flustered about punctuality, you know." A flickered smile. "So you flew to the docks to take the lightrail."

"Which docks?"

The Regent paused.

"42 Eastern. Sector 19."

Sasha had no impression from these numbers and tucked them away for later.

Vaughn lowered his gaze again. "At 7:58, we received a Code Blue. Infrastructure damage. There had been an explosion at 42 Eastern. Forty-nine dead, or dead now from their injuries. By the time I arrived, you were almost one of them."

The distance in the man's eyes become warped with an invisible memory. If any of this was an act, it was too brilliant. But this man was a Regent, and the Regents of their State were, by unanimous agreement, too brilliant.

"These are not injuries from June," said Sasha.

"We moved you between facilities. There was an accident with the vehicles. That was around early, mid August." A pause, a rolling swallow. "I brought you home on the 26th when your condition stabilized. Anna and I have been taking care of you since."

Anna, the frightened woman, probably. Not important at the moment.

"It was a vehicle accident that did this to me?"

Vaughn hesitated. He said, "The explosion at the docks did the bulk of the damage. Calibration error in the rail engines for the lanes. But you were physically recovered when we transferred you out. The scars and bruises you have now—those are all from the second accident."

"I'm not talking about the injuries."

"I..."

Silence fell between them.

At last Vaughn Scio exhaled and shook his head, his expression torn. "I don't know, Sasha. I'm sorry."

Sasha turned away.

"My family? My friends?"

Another pause.

"You're an only child. Your grandparents have been out of contact for a while. Your father died this year from cerebral atrophy. Your mother passed when you were nineteen. I can get in contact with a friend, if you'd like."

No family then. Without memory, the apathy was frightening in its disconnect.

Sasha looked toward the man's wrist where an elegant flat band curled. It was the connector band, with data history, messages, calls, personal information. He nodded toward it, the motion stilted.

"Where's mine?"

Scio hesitated yet again. "It was damaged during the explosion. But I have the data chip. I can have it installed in a new connector tomorrow."

Adequate opportunity for tampering.

Sasha looked out over the horizon, the endless blue a mocking calm. An explosion in June that left him unconscious for two months. A transportation accident that lacerated his arms and punctured his leg. Physical injuries that, without explanation, stripped him of all personal memory. No family. No accessible history to unedited social data.

A humorless, terrified laugh lodged in his lungs. Despite the warmth of the couch, it was suddenly freezing again.

"Sasha—"

Vaughn Scio had reached forward. Sasha jolted backward. This time, the man leaned closer and grabbed his arms, his shoulders when Sasha pulled away those limbs. Against an iron grip and a trained strength, his struggling was like a bird in the jaws of a wolf. Scared, his breath hitched and he pushed at the man's chest.

"Sasha, no, Sasha, don't. Don't—"

That voice cracked.

Sasha fell still.

Vaughn Scio looked down, hiding the twists within his unguarded face. His hands slid down too, down along Sasha's arms to his hands. The iron weathered, fragile now. Slowly, the man's body curled forward until his mulberry shirt stretched taut over the muscles of his back. His breath skimmed Sasha's knuckles. Staggering for a while. And then wet.

He was crying.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry it's like this. But please don't look at me like that, Sasha. Sasha, I thought I'd lost you. Don't let me have lost you."

Acting?

No. No, and that was instinct.

Sasha sighed. He pulled his hand from the man's grasp and touched his shoulder. Vaughn Scio looked up, a tear falling down the bold line of his nose. Confused, frustrated, guilty, and softened, Sasha thumbed the drops away. The man closed his eyes, another tear falling.

"Will you take me to see a doctor?" said Sasha. "Today?"

Vaughn opened his eyes and nodded. "Okay." He hesitated, and then pressed his lips against Sasha's palm. When Sasha did not resist, he took this hand, turned it, kissed the knuckles. A gesture so intent and gentle that the touch sank below flesh, into his very bones. "If that's what you want, I will."

 

* * *

 

When they went to the exit deck of the apartment, the first thing that caught Sasha's eye was the distant, glittering image of the Imperial Tower. According to the Regent, it was where they had intended to meet on the night of the first accident.

This building was the tallest tower of the Skyworld, set at its center, home to the Council, the Assembly, and the physical machinery of the sprawling cybernetwork. Fifteen decks expanded in circles around its highest floors, and the widest deck at the base spread like a protective canopy over a ring of towers below. At its tip, the carved statue of Prosperity spread her arms to the sky, the image of an untouchable opulence.

Sasha looked toward Vaughn, who waited by a sleek falcon vehicle on the deck. He asked, "What were we meeting at the Imperial for?"

Vaughn had left the passenger door open and now pulled open the driver's door. "I don't remember exactly. A matter of business." He disappeared inside the vehicle.

Sasha slid into the passenger seat of the falcon. "Business? And we do business together often?"

"Yes," said the Regent. "It's how we met."

The vehicle whirred softly to life.

"Tell me about that."

Vaughn pressed at the holoscreen on the control panel. "Buckle up first, love."

Sasha tugged the belt over his chest and into lock. It didn't feel habitual; he wondered with a dry humor if it was why he'd lost his memories.

"It's buckled."

Vaughn pulled the vehicle off ground, starting on flight mode. Driving, he said, "We met when you joined CyberSec eight years ago. You'd made yourself a name with the Council before then—in your college years, you'd developed this extension program for the System that caught our eye. And I suppose we got along. It took us some time, but we've been together for about a year and a half now."

A year and a half—shorter than Sasha had expected. But peripheral. He was caught on this second mention of CyberSec, the Department of Cyber Security.

Sasha watched the letters on the vehicle holoscreen and dug through his mind. He found a deep base of knowledge—the infrastructure of the network; confidential government access keys; the code, down to the letter, behind the common security programs of the state; Sylva, T, KanVTL, BTO, Amberscript, some dozen other languages—more that he glazed over. Everything revolved around an axis, as intimate as his own name, and like his own name, pitch and empty in his memory. The unease itched dreadfully beneath his skull.

He reached for the the first oddity lurking in Vaughn's words.

"An extension for what system?"

The Regent paused, only briefly.

"The Astrid System. You don't remember it?"

Sasha frowned. "No. What is it?"

"It's our Ground management program. It functions as a Ground monitor, I suppose." Vaughn paused. "Like I said, you worked priority investigation and development. High profile network cases. Mostly security breaches on the investigations end, and plenty to do with the System. Development end—you specialized in the System as well. Are you sure you don't remember anything?"

Sasha thought about it.

"I remember that a Ground management program exists. But no details about the program itself."

"I see," said Vaughn. He sighed after a moment. "Maybe it's for the best. You were working on some important projects, but they were cutting into your health. This could be good for you. For us."

"I remember infrastructure and code. About as much as a new hire. I can still work, and I want to."

_Need to._

The falcon dropped onto a high skylane. Slipping out of flight mode, it zipped along the hanging track alongside the other prim vehicles.

"Let's give it a week," said Vaughn. "Your body is still recovering. We'll speak to the CyberSec directors afterward and work something out. And maybe you'll remember a little more by then."

A desperate hope. Sasha was afraid to bank on it.

He looked out over the cityscape. The space below sank until the depth seemed bottomless, lit only by the glitter from the lanes, the lights from the falcons, the sun reflecting from window glass. Spots of familiarity, but the rest was just indecipherable. It seemed appropriate for how he was feeling.

"Do you remember the city?" asked Vaughn.

His eyes trailed to the far line of the Barcase Bridge.

"Like I've memorized a map," he said eventually. "But nothing more."

Everything personal was gone. Everything, down to a confidence in the name _Sasha_ —in even his existence as a human being. Sasha entertained the fleeting thought that he was a product of science, and then he became unnerved enough that he fell silent the rest of the ride.

It was not plausible that this kind of amnesia was an accidental trauma. Sasha knew this because he knew the physiology of the brain: there was no kind of physical damage that could selectively redact memory with such precision. When they arrived at the home of a Dr. Amy Muzara, a lean, fit woman with grey streaks in her dark hair who seemed to recognize both of them, she concluded the same after a talk and several scans. The neural map and holographed image of his brain showed nothing wrong.

They had picked her out of a directory list. Sasha had insisted—his own choice. Vaughn had been fine with it.

"It could be temporary," said the doctor, eyes trained on the holograph in the projection room. "It should be. But if not, at least we know that your health is sound."

Sasha would have preferred a tumor. At least those could be fixed. At least those were unintentional products of nature, not an inexplicable thing lurking in mystery.

Beside him, Vaughn sighed.

"It should be temporary? What can we do to shorten the temporary?"

"I would suggest following old routines, particularly routines that spike brain activity. For you, Mr. Myeong, your work projects would be a good one. The most effective medicine for amnesia is usually spending time with a loved one. Intimacy could help."

Sasha glanced at Vaughn, who glanced back.

"I can also provide you with some medication," said the doctor, "to raise your pregnenolone levels. Stimulate some neuron and synapse growth. It's more preventative than restorative, but with memory loss like this, it's better safe than sorry."

Sasha nodded. He could decide whether he wanted to take the meds later.

"I'd appreciate that."

The doctor nodded. "Alright. I'll get those ready for you. And I'll keep these scans on file. Come back next week, and let's see where we're at, okay?"

They thanked her. With a bag of neat blue pills and no better peace, Sasha followed Vaughn back to the apartment.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, he traced the decor of the bedroom—their bedroom—while Vaughn showered in the adjacent bathroom. He was inspecting the photographs when the Regent emerged, loosely robed and damp. Looking at this man, the wet droplets on his skin, the sensual shadows of his collar and the compact broadness of his muscles, Sasha recognized a clear physical attraction, if muted by his current circumstances. So he liked men—yet another thing he had not remembered. So he liked men who looked like Vaughn Scio. Maybe the photographs on the drawer top had not been fabricated in the network.

"Tell me about this," said Sasha, picking up the image of the night lanes. In it, Vaughn kissed his cheek and Sasha smiled at the camera.

Vaughn walked over and peered at the photograph.

"This was from February," said Vaughn. He smiled, but it looked strained. "You brought me to dinner for my birthday."

He set the photograph back on the stand.

"Sasha."

Sasha paused at the careful tone. Vaughn gazed at him. In the dimmed light, the Regent's bold bones cast heavy shadows over his skin.

"I know you can't remember us. You look at me, and your eyes are different." His lips curved softly. His hand reached forward, tentative. When Sasha did not move, those fingertips brushed his cheekbone, as light as if he were touching a hologram. Electric. "Still the most brilliant pair I know."

Sasha hesitated. Indeed, that silver was brilliant too. Even beautiful.

"I know you're scared. I know that nothing seems to make sense and you don't know what to believe."

Vaughn Scio leaned closer.

"Will you let me show you that we were real?"

_Real._

Reality felt like an invaluable promise. This close, Sasha felt the weight of his head, one slipped curiosity away from a nod, but the drumming of his pulse went on too quickly, and each beat interrupted his concentration.

After a pause too long, he glanced at the bed. Wide, round, empty. Unfamiliar.

"Not tonight."

A moment passed. Sasha didn't realize it was tense until Vaughn sighed, and stepped back, and the space around filled with a looseness that had been missing all this time.

"Not tonight, then," said Vaughn. He glanced at the bed. "Do you want to sleep alone?"

He did, but he remembered the tears on patio. He debated for a moment.

"This is fine."

Vaughn smiled, which Sasha looked away from, wondering if his own compromise had been set up, wondering what sort of distorted nature had him doubting this man's intentions to this degree. Professional skepticism, perhaps, but professional skepticism told him it was survivor's instinct. He pushed these thoughts aside and tucked into bed.

That night, he woke twice in a cold sweat, but never with memories of his nightmares.


	3. 3

When Sasha woke, he was curled on his good side and thickly wrapped in covers. The left half of the bed was bare, but mussed enough to have been slept in. He dragged his eyes to the shaded window, and past it, saw the morning city moving with life—falcons in the sky and on the lanes, busy bodies trying to get to work.

It was Monday. His name was Alexander Davis-Myeong and he was twenty-nine years old. He was not working today at CyberSec as he would be, because he was recovering from a three-month coma, an explosion at the 42 Eastern midground loading docks of Sector 19, and a transport accident.

The bed was soft and warm enough that he would have liked to believe this. 

He pushed upright to properly wake and a nausea came down on his head. It wasn't exactly physical. Maybe the remnant of a dream. He swallowed revulsion in his throat, shut his eyes to keep it contained. The moment was gone as quickly as it came, leaving him relieved, lost, and empty.

At least he had a routine today: the washroom behind the tall bedpost, the closet with clothes that purported to be his. He cleaned and dressed in simple, comfortable things, and then wandered into the halls.

He smelled cooking, wonderfully poignant. He heard the clutter of it from the kitchen, and when he arrived he saw Vaughn pouring the rich contents of a steaming pot into a storage container. A bowl of porridge rested on the long table behind the Regent. 

Vaughn glanced up. He smiled handsomely.

"Good morning, love. How are you feeling?"

Sasha paused for a brief moment.

"I'm well. What time is it?"

"Seven forty-two. You'll have to forgive me for eating breakfast without you—I have to leave in a few minutes, and I didn't want to wake you."

To work, Sasha assumed—whatever that might mean for a Regent. He didn't quite know; administrative things and other matters that didn't reach the public ear. He had an impersonal knowledge that no one ever asked—no one with the power to ask ever cared, when they were all provided with the greatest luxuries of the State.

"May I come with you?"

"I want you to rest here today," said Vaughn. He scooped out the last of the soup with a large spoon, and then set the container inside a storage drawer that was nested in the wall. "Anna will be here at eight to keep you company. This is lunch" —he gestured to the soup he'd set aside— "and I will be back to prepare dinner."

"I'm not sure that I can sit around for an entire day," said Sasha. "May I leave the apartment?"

Vaughn washed his hands and came around the counter. As he did so, he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a ring of electronic keys, removing a two-inch cerulean tab and a thin card. "Here. You can have my backup apartment keys. Just don't drive anything, please."

Sasha took the cerulean tab. Though grateful, his gaze inevitably drifted to the connector band on Vaughn's wrist. That band contained the primary access keys to his apartment, his vehicles, his wallet, even to the government restricted zones of the State.

Perhaps noticing his gaze, Vaughn smiled and said, "I'll stop by the shop this afternoon and get your old chip reinstalled in a new conn. Here, in the meantime."

He passed Sasha a thin card. A row of serial numbers and microchips on one side, a familiar logo on the other.  _Blueworld Enterprises._  A network port machine manufacturer.

"There's one in the workroom," said Vaughn. "Yours, actually. You've spent most of your life in the network, so getting back in there might help with your memories. And if not, I'm sure there will be something to keep you entertained." 

Sasha traced the serial numbers of the card by his fingertips. Already, he could see the sprawl of the network in his mind, endless data open to the code he still remembered intimately, home to the city security data, the citizenry access logs, medical files, family trees, any documented personal history. His heart raced, forgetting the cerulean apartment key in his other hand—because this,  _this_ was the key to all of his questions. The network bared all its secrets to Sasha, and if he remembered nothing else, he remembered this.

Looking up at Vaughn now, Sasha wanted to apologize for yesterday. He had not expected free reins access to a port. This little chip card weighed heavier than anyone's claims, a precious gateway to any truth. If Vaughn could provide the key, then maybe all of his doubts about the man had been unfounded.

Sasha said quite sincerely, "Thank you."

A silent moment passed. A waver in those eyes.

As tentative as yesterday, Vaughn Scio lifted his hand to Sasha's cheek. This time, the holographic touch became human, folding wholly against Sasha's skin. Thumbing his bones, brushing his hair. A warm, stable comfort. Sasha closed his eyes.

The first kiss was soft. In its interim, a breath swept his lips. The second kiss was a long, deep press, as gently starved as the hands cupping his face. Sasha felt an odd beat in his chest, a response to the close scent of western tea and rose mint, the faint scrape of neat stubble. Then those lips began to move, and like rousing from a nightmare, Sasha realized he knew how to respond.

He gasped, a soft noise in his throat. He curled his fingers in Vaughn's shirt, desperate to hold on to this small glimpse of intimate memory. Vaughn responded with fervor, fingers tangling in Sasha's hair, pulse thundering against Sasha's body, a deep sound vibrating from his chest. Soon the wall was at his back, and Sasha could not keep up.

"Wait," he gasped. "Vaughn—"

Vaughn pulled back. The black of his eyes ate into the silver, utterly vulnerable in their intensity. Slowly, slowly, his breath evened and he closed his eyes.

Sasha uncurled his fingers from the man's shirt. He flattened his palm. Beneath, a heart drummed into his hand.

Vaughn leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Sasha's.

"Thank you," whispered the Regent.

Sasha didn't know what to say.  

Lips grazed Sasha's cheek, barely a kiss. Vaughn murmured against his skin, "I'll see you in the evening."

Sasha watched him leave for the exit deck. When the Regent's shadow disappeared, Sasha pressed his port access card to his chest and leaned his head against the wall. The edges of the key dig into his hand, somehow throbbing with the pulse of Vaughn Scio's heart. Everything could be okay.

A few minutes later, as Sasha sat stirring his porridge, he heard an unobtrusive bell chime through the apartment. A door slid open. There were some rustles and footsteps in the rooms beyond the kitchen. He chewed a bite until a thin and dark figure appeared in the entrance—Anna, his promised company.

The woman froze when she saw Sasha with her one good eye. It was a peculiar kind of shock, undefined, and quickly hidden when she cast her eyes to the ground. She dipped her head at him, then hurried to the kitchen's storage wall where she set down a silicone box. She began to set away fresh food into the appropriate containers.

"Good morning," said Sasha. "Anna, right?"

The woman glanced sideways at him. She nodded stiffly and went back to unpacking the groceries. She said nothing.

"Are you mute? I'm sorry if that's impolite."

She paused again. Nodded again.

Sasha relented and observed her in silence. 

Today, the woman wore a blue ensemble. The material looked like wool, but he thought it was holofiber. Wool was far too expensive for a house servant who could not afford the reconstructive surgery for her eye—but then, why could she not afford reconstructive surgery for her eye? Or for her vocals? A Regent certainly had the assets to pay her well enough. And Vaughn, if Sasha had loved him enough to live with him for eight months, surely was not selfish with his money—not when his employee was maimed and disabled like this.

Likely she was a recent hire. It explained her movements, which were sharp and cautious around Sasha, telltale motions of discomfort. She set the groceries away with the speed of someone who wanted to get away. From him?

He couldn't be so threatening. Him, an unconscious amnesiac until recently.

Across the kitchen, Anna bent down to sort food into the lower drawers along the wall. Her braid fell over her shoulder when she tilted her head sideways. Sasha lifted his spoon midway, and stopped.

At the nape of the woman's neck, a blue light shined through her skin. It was a small dot, solid, not flickering. Familiar like the Bridge and the Tower—famous and ingrained into his knowledge: the Tag.

The blue was innocuous to look at, but it marked this woman a Grounder—a citizen from below midground, that place which housed petty criminals, immigrants from beyond, the disabled, the ones with hands and genes empty of contribution. The State could not support all eight hundred million citizens in the clean luxury of the Sky, so they prioritized their best by whatever means necessary. The Grounder's Tag was such a means: a tracking implant that alerted officials when it trespassed into the Sky—a handcuff to the prison of the Ground, unlocked only when the Sky gave its permission. No Grounder had so much as the right to life unless they wore the  blue light of the Tag.

With Anna's disability and her housemaid employment, the Tag was to be expected. But Sasha could not look away from the blue. He felt faintly sick at the electric blemish on the woman's skin.

 _It's only preservation_ , a distant voice murmured.  _We are a dying species_ ,  _and this is what survival looks like._

Sasha remembered the rich statue on the Imperial Tower with her arms spread for opulence. The survival of prosperity, perhaps.

When Anna stood and hurried out of the room, Sasha was still hanging inconclusively about the weight of the Tag. It drew him, the pivot point of many layered curiosities—about the Ground, about the Sky, about the Council, the Regents, about the likely related Ground management system that was the supposed crux of his work at CyberSec. Lured, he set aside his unfinished breakfast and went to follow Anna. He picked up the notepad and red pen on the kitchen counter, intent on trying a proper conversation with the woman, a script of questions already unravelling in his head.

Somehow, he ended up in the workroom.

Blinking, he surveyed the clean space. He glanced at the door. That was right—he hadn't been able to find Anna. And now that he was here, the port machine hooked into the wall consumed his attention.

It was an advanced professional model, a sleek machine chair bearing a silver-lined helmet at its side. The overview specs imprinted on the helmet indicated that the machine was the epitome of this technology, not designed for typical consumer use. Sasha touched the arm of this chair as if it could be a hologram—but it was solid, foam-filled, like clouds in the highest sky when eyes were closed beneath that spaceless helmet, so matchless in its science that its best users could reach the self-illusion of God. Sasha could: in a world as cybernetic as this, there was not much he couldn't discover from the premier network ports.

The anticipation trembled his fingers. It took him two tries to insert the manual chip key into the reader below the arm. The machine whirred softly to life.

Still without memory, Sasha should be afraid of what he would find. Yet it was absolutely reassuring to feel the slim, electric weight of the helmet over his head. The metal moulded to his skull and slid down the nape of his neck, around to embrace his spine, all as smoothly as memory. When he could still feel the foam beneath his back and the support below his arms, a script flashed beneath the helmet.

_Enter network?_

Sasha swallowed.

"Command prompt: Yes."

And then matter slowly dissolved.

Most ports kept the user half-grounded in reality, cognizant of their physical bodies and all its ordinary perceptions. This advanced machine was not like those: it produced total immersion, where all consciousness was transferred into the network in exchange for greater mobility. For Sasha, who must have gone through this transfer thousands of times in the past, it was unexpectedly jarring. He felt caught between waking and dreaming, distinctly aware of how unreachable either world was: everything was colorless, soundless, and surely he couldn't speak because he felt no vocal cords beneath no throat.

For a moment, he was scared of the emptiness. But like a slow blink, that moment passed.

He stood in a dimensionless space with a virtual rendering of his own body. A script hovered in front of him.

_Welcome, Mr. Davis-Myeong. Please enter your domain key._

He touched the script. A keyboard appeared. He didn't remember his key.

"Command prompt," he said, "Direct ID."

A pause. The script changed.

_Direct ID access has been turned off. Please enter your domain key._

Sasha frowned. Direct ID, which bypassed the manual key and confirmed domain access with a brain scan, could only be turned off by the owner of the domain. This action was also verified with a brain scan, so that no one but the owner of the domain could deny Direct ID access to the domain. But why would he have denied himself Direct ID access to his own domain? It housed all his work, tools, and network history.

There was no use regretting it now.

"Command prompt: Use default platform."

_Default platform loading._

A white room grew into the space around him. He faced a single door, leading to whichever area of the network he wished to access. With so little to start from, Sasha decided to keep the day simple—he went to the news archives. The door, processing his destination, opened to a sprawling virtual library. Other indistinct figures drifted through. Not wanting to interact, Sasha turned on private browsing and found himself alone in the news archives domain.

For the next hour, he sifted through the public access data. First was June 16th, 42 Eastern, Sector 19. The data matched Vaughn's account; the curious thing was the lack of it. What little information Sasha could find reported an explosion during the evening, the result of a mechanical error. Thirty-eight dead on site, eleven passed to their injuries. Sixteen survivors—this was the strange part, because the numbers were so drastically skewed to fatality—and none with their names released. 

Sasha filed this information away and entered his own name into the hovering search tool. This time, a mass of data appeared, swirling around his virtual form in floating article text.

_Alexander Davis-Myeong. Senior Analyst at the Department of Cyber Security...essential advancements in State security work... nineteen year old prodigy...the tragic death of Assemblyman Myeong...kidnapped after the murder..._

Murder.

Grounders.

He selected this article.

2576, November 8th. A decade ago.

The floating file displayed the image of a beautiful woman. She was smiling at the camera, but her smile was not for the camera—it was broad, and brilliant, and too sincere for an audience. Her eyes, scorched mulberry leaves, burnt brown at their centers, singed gold at their edges, were curling to her unpreserved laugh. To the left of this woman was a handsome Asian man. To the right of this woman was a young Sasha, mirroring her laugh.

Dr. Clara Davis, the article read, had been killed by illegal unTagged Grounders on November 7th, 2576. She had left behind her loving husband, Assembly Representative Eugene Myeong, and a missing nineteen year old son.   

Sasha stared at the woman in the file. What had been apathy dissolved at the concrete image of her smile. His chest constricted even through the layers of the network.

His mother had been killed by Grounders, the article said, and her son had disappeared that same night. After a few more articles, Sasha pieced together the entire story: the same Grounders who murdered his mother had kidnapped him. Weeks later, he found his way back to the Sky. But without the memories to prove that he had lived it, the tale seemed like fiction. He was thinking that he needed deep data, beyond the superficial lettering of public news archives. He was thinking that he needed a proper domain, a modified platform, the right tools.

And then a script appeared in front of him.

_External disturbance detected. Exit network?_

Sasha glanced around the network space. He was no longer in the news library. He'd gotten carried away with his thinking and digging, and somehow ended up in the restricted State security monitor archives.

"Command prompt: Exit network."

The blue matrices of the cyberspace faded away. Reality came back with a faint ache.

A hand was on his shoulder.

"Sasha."

Sasha pulled the helmet from his head, his muscles sore with the motion, his throat dry, his stomach an angry pit. He needed the bathroom. Outside, the sky was a fading vermillion.

Dusk.

He looked at Vaughn, leaning beside him with a concerned frown. The man was changed out of his work clothes and smelled like spiced vegetables.

"I didn't want to disturb you," said the Regent gently, "but dinner is ready."

Sasha had been in the network for an entire day.

How come he had learned so little?

"Sasha?"

No, that was right—there hadn't been much to find after all.

"I'm fine," he said, pushing his back off the foam. "When did you get home?"

"About two hours ago," said Vaughn. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim black band. "I promised you, no? The data from your old connector has been transferred in. The model is newer, but if you prefer the 208, I can pick one up tomorrow."

Sasha took the band. Like the key card to the network port, the gesture eased his heart. The data was not necessarily reliable, but for now, it seemed fine to believe that it was.

"Thank you," he said softly.

Vaughn gazed at him for a moment. Then he leaned forward and kissed Sasha's mouth. A sweet touch, tinged with respect and affection.

Over dinner, Vaughn explained the access encoded into his connector—the model A13 falcon on the deck, the majority of the government towers, all levels of CyberSec barring one, and every high lane of the Skyworld. He went through finances with Sasha as well. CyberSec paid well, and in between the wealth and the access, Sasha wondered if there was a catch.  _Or perhaps_ , murmured that voice in the back of his head,  _this was all a genuine accident._

No. He wasn't ready to tuck away his doubt yet.

Sasha set up his connector after dinner. Before he had begun to parse through the data, Vaughn pulled him to the marbled enclosure by the patio. He sat Sasha down in front of the windowed glass that became like a mirror in the night, then rolled to their side a small stand, which had on it a comb, a spray bottle, a towel, and two pairs of scissors.

"Your hair," said Vaughn. "It's beautiful, but quite a bit longer than you used to wear it."

Sasha didn't feel very vain. He didn't protest as Vaughn prepared to give him a cut, however that might turn out. A calm instrumental played in the background. Before him, the cityscape beyond the patio was rich and peaceful. Vaughn was careful with his hands and Sasha didn't dislike any of this.

In the meantime, he tapped the buttons of his connector band, now encoded to recognize his fingerprints. A holographed screen appeared above the connector, sensitive to Sasha's touch. He accessed the comm logs first, finding a contact list of seven-hundred eighty-three, and hardly any that he recognized. The ones he did recognize were statused names like Vaughn Scio, or peripherals from his research in the network. Down the list, he paused at  _Mom_. His mother's contact information was still listed. The last message had been received on the night of November 7th, 2576. It read, _Come help me carry the boxes! R104._

Sasha flicked through the comm log. He searched for Vaughn. 

In his contacts, the Regent was shortnamed simply as  _V._ Their message history stopped at June 16th, 8:05 PM, after a chain of desperate texts from Vaughn. Nothing in it suggested a Code Blue explosion, but the panic beginning at 7:58 was tangible. The last one read,  _Sasha_.

Sasha scrolled up. On the day of June 16th, he'd kept Vaughn updated on his schedule. The visit down to the midground contact had apparently been unexpected, but Vaughn had responded with a patient,  _Take your time - I can wait._ Further up, no text correspondence until June 14th. He'd told Vaughn he was on his way at 6:19 PM. Prior to this—nothing until June 6th, and then not until May 28th. The call log was more telling of a relationship; they seemed to correspond little via messaging.

The hair snipping paused. A finger tilted his chin gently. "Look this way, love."

Sasha complied. Lifting his connector, he flicked out of the comm log between the two of them. He sorted by recency and scrolled through the unread messages.

Two hundred and twenty-nine, most delivered just today. Several inconsequential company updates and advertising. Fifty-four from a woman named Harriet Louman, shortnamed Harrie. Sasha opened this log.

The last read messages were brief, informal exchanges—plans for a weekend lunch. Before then, Louman had sent him a link to a documentary video on marine animals, which Sasha had responded to with a single question mark, to which Louman had replied,  _ok you're alive._ This had been on May 22nd. The first set of new messages began on July 16th. Louman had sent him a panicked chain, which stopped abruptly late evening with:  _I'll kill you if you're dead_.

"Who is Harriet Louman?"

"Hm? Harriet Louman...she's a State Attorney for Sector 12, isn't she? Your best friend."

Sasha didn't find it hard to believe that his best friend was a prosecutor. His lover was a Regent, his father had apparently been an Assembly representation, and his mother a victim of Ground crime. 

He switched to another recent comm log. "Maybel Saragot?"

"One of your juniors at CyberSec. If I recall correctly, you don't like her very much."

"Walsh Boering?"

"A friend in Justice. He processes a lot of your access warrants."

"Related to Evalin Boering?"

"Hm. I'm not sure, actually. You haven't mentioned an Evalin to me before."

"Who do I mention?"

"Not many people," said Vaughn. He threaded his fingers through Sasha's hair, a tame length now. It seemed that he had done this before: the quickness of his cutting had belied a particular confidence, and the results were handsome. How a Regent found the time to practice cutting hair, Sasha had no idea. "You keep most people at a professional distance. Your work takes up most of your time." In the mirroring glass, a smile curved Vaughn's lips. "Sometimes, I might even say your work is your first love. You might have felt it today."

It was true. Sasha had found himself more at home in the virtual world than the real one—had let a whole day pass, forgetting his physical needs.

"But," said Vaughn, cleaning the edges of this new haircut, "I can't be jealous of the network, can I?"

He stopped cutting and paused with the scissors in his hands, the blades closed. Sasha felt the cold tip resting on the nape of his neck. Sasha looked at the window and saw the Regent gazing down behind him. An undefined feeling stirred in his gut before the cold left his skin.

Vaughn set the scissors down. He came around and pressed the towel gently to Sasha's face, clearing the loose hairs. Sasha closed his eyes when the cloth went below his brows, and opened them to see Vaughn gazing down with a strange look. Perhaps torn.

"Vaughn?"

Vaughn sighed, smiling. "It's still not quite the same."

Sasha hesitated.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment, glancing away from the Regent. "It must feel like I've taken away someone you love."

Vaughn sank to his knees and reached for Sasha's hands. When Sasha looked up, he found those silver eyes as soft as the foam of the network ports. Reminiscent of home.

"No," said Vaughn. "No. You're right here." He cupped Sasha's face. "This is more than I could ask for, Sasha. That you're alive and safe with me."

Later, Sasha gazed at that nightscape photograph in the bedroom, his own foreign smile at Vaughn's intimate kiss. He tried to pull his lips into the same expression and found himself frowning. But that was peripheral, a thought he soon forgot.

He tucked beneath the covers, thicker on his end than his lover's. The lights flickered off. This night, Vaughn Scio trailed his fingers along Sasha's back, beneath his shirt, his palm drinking in skin. There was a murmur against his cheek, incomprehensible. A sudden chill in the room. Sasha shut his eyes and curled into those arms, not yet convinced, but a little more willing to believe. Like the jaws of a great beast, that warmth swallowed him whole.


	4. 4

The next day, Sasha pried himself away from the lure of the network. It seemed that yesterday's search had yielded little, and while he would love to keep digging, instinct told him to balance the research in cyberspace with a tangible investigation. After Vaughn had gone to work, he called up Harriet Louman, who answered her connector with the expected shock of a best friend.

They set up a lunch meeting at Louman's workplace. Louman had insisted on coming to Sasha, but Sasha was not giving up the sprawl of cyberspace only to wait in an apartment like a tame pet. He went to her. He did listen to Vaughn's small request about no driving; on the apartment's exit deck, he bypassed the tempting falcons in favor of the elevator.

His connector gave him access: a quick wrist scan and a green light later, the elevator door slid open. Inside was a luxurious private compartment with a cushioned bench, a telescreen running news, and the Arleon Tower logo. Two walls were glass, overlooking the cityscape with a removed grandiosity. One wall was panelled with a black screen for controls.

The top of this screen read 999—current floor. Below, there was a prompt for the destination floor. Sasha ignored the input box and scrolled through the listed numbers, down until he found a script that read _Upper Commercial Level._ He picked this one.

The elevator began the descent with a pleasant bell. Sasha sat on the bench and listened to the news.

The reporter was a beautiful woman who looked healthy and happy. She spoke about some corporate updates, a merger between two pharmaceutical giants, the upcoming Assembly elections for the two seats recently vacated, the Council of Regents granting the proposal for infrastructural development in Sector 14. The world she reported on seemed calm enough. By the time the elevator came to a halt, not a thing had been said to suggest societal imperfection, which was alarming in itself—an indicator of hush, particularly when six hundred million inhabitants were Tagged like cattle. But if Sasha had a problem with the world he lived in, he could remember nothing beyond an ambiguous disdain.

The elevator opened to a handsome hall, which led to a wide lobby. Two receptionists sat behind a spanning counter, the younger one perhaps a part-time, the elder one likely a Grounder. A few others, all finely dressed in the manner of the high Sky, loitered or passed through.

Beyond the lobby, the floor was modelled after old city streets—shopping compartments and restaurants lined wide roads, all beneath a ceiling lit to mimic a sky. At the far end, the building opened to the hanging street decks out below the real sky, except here, the view above and the view below were both decorated with weaving lanes and falcon vehicles. By this pre-lunch hour, business and work were in session, and the people on the Sky streets were mostly people making caffeine stops, running tasks, or delinquenting—like the trio of boys with schoolbags playing behind the window of the cybercafe. Of course, not even the Sky was perfect with its citizenry.

No one spoke to Sasha. No one seemed to recognize him. This was not surprising; the upper city structure allowed easy travel for its two hundred million Skyworld residents, so that the number of faces a person saw on a day were too many to process. He was but one in the crowd, and comfortable like this.

It was the public transit rails he sought. These were marked by a sign on the commercial deck, so he was able to skip the business of asking. He found the entrance to the rail station across from the shopping square, a row of ten ticket gates guarding passage. Two minutes later, he was seated on a rail and taking off.

Louman had given him a destination, and it was as Sasha had told Vaughn a few days ago: he seemed to know the State like a memorized map. Without much trouble, he got off at the right stop, walked a ways, took an elevator, and found himself on the 750th floor of the Blaus Tower by lunch time.

Blaus Tower, where Louman worked, was a neat government building that rested on the west side of the Barcase Bridge, among all the other State towers of Sector 12. In total, it was a thirty-four minute trip from the Arleon Tower by public transit. As arranged with Louman, Sasha waited on the deck of floor 750, on a white aerosteel bench of the modest garden. Idle, he began to count.

Three twenty-three.

A woman in a prim blue suit came through the building entrance. Her brown hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, her make-up done with soft precision. Attractive in an achieved and amicable way. Her eyes locked on Sasha with a broad smile and her steps picked up pace.

Sasha stood up just in time to be caught by her arms.

"God, Alex, it's so good to see you."

"It's good to see you too, I think."

She pulled away with a strained chuckle. Next she pinched his shoulder bones gently. "You've lost some serious weight."

"Yes, I can feel it."

Louman shook her head. "At least you can. Come on—let's get out of the cold." When they stepped through the locked glass doors, the woman said, "So this is real? You actually don't remember me?"

Earlier on the call, Sasha had warned Louman of this.

"I don't remember anyone. I was told that you're a close friend, so I was hoping you could help."

Louman snorted. "You were told? By who?"

"Vaughn. Vaughn Scio."

"Yeah, I know which Vaughn. Do you remember him?"

"I don't." Then Sasha thought of the kiss and amended, "Not entirely."

"You know, in different circumstances, I might be happy about that. Have you spoken to him yet? I guess you must have. When did you wake up? I mean from the coma."

"Two days ago. He's been taking care of me. Have you always worked here?"

Louman glanced around the hall they were in. It was a wide public space, and many faces were passing through. Many were suited, perhaps the usual employees of the building. Only one had waved a greeting their way—the singularity was what prompted Sasha's question.

"Ah, no. I moved from Sector 3 recently. Nice promotion, but the guys here are stone cold bores. Been lonely without you. Hey—this way."

Louman grabbed his wrist and led him down a hall of elevators. She scanned her connector against one that bore a green light and the door slid open.

Inside, this elevator did not have the same open view as the one of Arleon Tower. When the doors closed, Sasha had a brief sense of claustrophobia. Then it was gone—or perhaps expanded tenfold, that phobic sense replaced with an instinctive horror when Louman turned suddenly toward him, when her hand slid under his shirt, lifting, pressing to skin.

"How's your—"

Sasha withdrew quickly. His back hit the elevator wall and his heart sped with alarm. His head felt dizzy.

Louman took a half-step back and lifted both hands. "No, sorry, I—god, I'm forgetting about—" she made a gesture around her head "—this. I wasn't trying anything weird, okay? Just wanted to check if your stomach is alright. There was a pretty big hole in it last time I saw."

He blinked. His pulse slowed a bit. He pulled his shirt properly down.

"It's fine now. Don't worry about it."

He kept that distance between them. Louman eyed the space and cleared her throat.

"Listen, um, Alex. We're not—I like ladies. You can relax."

A tall order for a vulnerable amnesiac, but Sasha took a step closer to the center of the elevator anyway. Louman seemed more relaxed by this than he was.

They came to the 778th floor shortly after, where Louman led Sasha to a window-side office in silence. Luxurious, with a sprawling desk, a television, two couches facing a coffee table. Sasha sat on a couch while Louman prepared two cups of tea. She came back to the couch and offered something that smelled faintly of honey and roses. Sasha took the cup while Louman took the other couch.

The woman settled down with a soft heave. "Sorry about not visiting more frequently. You know—well, maybe you don't know, but I would have gone daily if it wasn't for Scio. We don't get along. Anyway. You go first."

With questions, she meant. Sasha had made a list during the trip here.

"I'm sorry if these are impersonal. I'm in a bit of a bind."

"It's fine," said Louman. "Ask away."

"What happened on June 16th?"

Louman started with a sigh. "Well, we received a Statewide alert at around eight? Something about an explosion at 42 Eastern. Last time we talked, you said you'd been going down to midground frequently, so I messaged you just in case. You didn't respond, so I messaged Scio. I think it was about an hour later that he told me you were receiving emergency care."

"Did you see me that night?"

"No. No, I mean, I wanted to. Scio wouldn't tell me anything."

"When did you see me? If you did?"

"I did. The first time I saw you was—let's see. August 9th, I think. Saw you at the hospital, but only because Tess called it in for me—Tess, she's our friend over at Central."

"She called it in? On the 9th?"

"Apparently you'd been transferred in that night. They said you'd been receiving care elsewhere before then. Then there was a traffic accident." Louman paused. Her jaw clenched minutely as she glanced at the window. Back down at the coffee table, she lowered her voice. "Well, I'm no doctor, but it didn't look like your falcon crashed or anything."

"What do you mean?"

"You looked shredded." Louman tapped her stomach. "Here? They were redressing the wound when I came in. It looked like you'd just taken a spike to the stomach. And here—" she pointed to her left arm, where Sasha wore two long scars beneath the shirt "—like you got sliced deep."

"What about a vehicle?"

"I don't know anything about a vehicle. Apparently they got rid of it."

"Back to the wounds—any shrapnel, glass? Concussive damage?"

"Didn't look like it. But you'll have to ask someone else about the head damage."

"How long was I in Central Hospital for?"

"Not long. Scio took you to a private facility on the 18th. Kindle, I think. He brought you back to his place on the 26th, and that's when I stopped visiting on weekdays. Stopped by this past Saturday, and you were sleeping like a baby."

"But you visited up until the 26th?"

Louman smiled crookedly. "Every day. I know, it's not like me. But when you're on the verge of losing your best friend, you get a bit scared."

"Thank you," said Sasha. It was a bit reserved. "How was I?"

The woman shrugged. "Scio had the best doctors on you. You were visibly recovering. But you wouldn't wake up. They kept saying it was temporary, but it's hard not to worry."

"And Vaughn?"

"What about him?"

Sasha felt his brow draw unconsciously. "Anything about him."

Louman sighed again. She set the teacup on the table and stretched back against the couch.

"Vaughn Scio? Well, let's see. You met him back in '78 when you joined CyberSec. That was before I knew you. To be honest, I don't know all that much about how you guys started. You don't talk about your relationship much."

"But I have been living with him these past eight months?"

"Yeah. I mean, when I say you don't _talk_ much about your relationship, I mean you don't _talk_ much. But you skip work when he's sick. Dress up for dinner dates. Shop for nice pastries, because Scio likes pastries. You know, the little things."

Sasha paused. "What is he like?"

"I don't know what you see in him, to be honest," said Louman, shaking her head. "He's a Regent. You know how they are—single-minded, sociopathic power players. Ah, don't tell anyone I said that." Her lips quirked in a smile. "Well, they're capable enough. Got a mind to match yours, that's for sure. I guess he's good-looking too. Honestly, whatever you love about him, it's something the two of you keep secret."

"He said we started dating about a year and a half ago. Do you know anything about that?"

Louman hesitated, then looked off at the window. "Yeah. A bit. Last spring, there was an incident with the illegal Grounders. It was pretty bad. You know Marcus Kalengar? The Regent? They took his woman and returned her dead body after a few days. You were working closer to danger than she'd been, and Scio got scared. He tried to pull you off the case, and that's when you two got into a huge fight. I guess a lot of emotions came out."

"Oh?"

"You'd had feelings for him for a while. Apparently it was mutual."

"So did he pull me off the case?"

"Er, I don't think so. You guys worked out some kind of compromise. Say, you really don't remember him? Not even the faintest impression?"

Sasha thought of the warmth of his arms and the clockwork familiarity of his lips. "I think there is a slight impression. It's—" The words lodged in his throat. He was not sure why, but he ended up saying, "I'm not sure, actually."

There was a silence.

"Well, that's a pretty troublesome condition," said Louman, gazing at the coffee table. There was an undefined look about her eyes, erased when she glanced up with an easy smile. "But you're going to be alright. You've got me. And as much as I dislike that prick—Scio, he's got a good heart about you. You're in good hands."

"I'd prefer to be in my own hands, to be honest. But thank you."

Later that afternoon, Sasha walked out of Blaus Tower with a trail of new questions—about this unnamed location he had been transferred to Central Hospital from, about the missing vehicle, about the wounds that didn't line up with a simple crash. Approaching the elevator on the deck, he stopped suddenly.

All these answers he had gotten from Louman, surely they could have been extracted from the network yesterday. All these peripheral questions they brought, surely he could have already resolved. Or had he?

It was only after a moment of standing on the tower deck that he remembered he had. That information about the hospital transfer, the Kindle facilities, the move to Arleon Tower on the 26th—yesterday, the network files had verified it. The peripherals too, with nothing peculiar as far as he had the time to uncover. But it was all indistinct, as if he'd glossed over the details...

One more time. He'd give it another check when he returned to the apartment.

 

* * *

 

Down in the midground holding cells, the air was heavy with the rising grime of the lower city. Here, the lights were not as bright as the sun, and they cast long shadows across the man's sunken face, dripping down from his matted, unkempt, oiled black locks. Dripping down from his scarred cheeks—blood, fresh.

He looked to be in his mid-thirties. East Asian. Well-trained in body, with strong muscles and hardly any excess fat. But on his right arm, he wore the tail of a dragon tattoo, which writhed onto his back. His back was not as scarred as his cheeks—which were not broad enough. His nose was too large. He wore his hair long, which hid some of the curves of his face, but his visible lips were shades too full.

And his eyes—ah, his eyes. Not even nearly hateful enough.

Vaughn dusted air off his coat lapel to calm his irritation.

"Very good, Heller. You've picked up another fake."

"B-but, sir—"

"He confessed? Grow some wit. There are a few thousand idiots out there dying to steal the doctor's name."

The Asian man coughed blood. Through a damaged throat, he wheezed and spoke.

"The State will fall. The S-Sky will be ours. The Sky—"

The man grunted into splutters as a prim black boot rammed into his face. Marcus Kalengar sent another kick to his stomach, and that man was sprawling, the back of his neck bare of the mandated blue light. Another kick cracked his side before Vaughn grabbed the younger Kalengar, who finally stepped back and collected his anger.

"Be quiet, scum," said Kalengar.

Vaughn turned to the state guard.

"I'm curious, Heller. How did you catch him?"

Heller bowed his head and stammered his answer.

"H-he was t-trying to break into the midground, sir. A citizen called in about a suspicious movement..."

"Right." Vaughn looked down at the pathetic, bloodied shape on the ground. "Haneul's broken into the Sky thousands of times with ease. As if he'd get caught like this." He looked at the guard, whose nerves were acrid in his scent. "Next time you get excited about a confession, I suggest you consider the plausibility of it first. And check this idiot's spine. I'll bet it's still clean."

"Yes, sir. I—"

Vaughn waved the guard off and turned to leave. Behind him came another harsh kick, a vicious stomp, and a shrill scream. The Regent Kalengar said, "Have this bastard executed for wasting our time."

Revolting as it was, Vaughn said nothing as he walked out of the holding cells.

Out on the open deck, he pulled out a tab and tossed it in his mouth. The pill melted instantly, and down went the aroma of a faint high. The agitation only began to fade—no drugs existed to wholly cure this feeling, after all. None but one, and he was hundreds of floors above this dirty place, hopefully being tame.

A few moments later, Kalengar joined Vaughn with sullen footsteps.

"That's the third time this month."

Vaughn said, with more calm to balance out the younger Regent's boiling anger, "What did you expect? We played too many cards in June. He knows our hand."

"We still have one more card."

"Forget it."

Kalengar stepped in front of Vaughn. "Listen. We still don't know what in hell happened to the code. We don't have time to be wasting on games. Just set up the bait—"

Before either men could blink, Vaughn had his fist hard in Kalengar's shirt collar. Fear flickered in the young Regent's eyes.

"He," said Vaughn, brittle, "is not bait."

Kalengar's lips twitched. That fear smoothed out to disgust. His mouth opened with an ugly tremor, and closed, and opened again. A taunt laced his words.

"Do you think you'll kill him when he figures it out?"

"The System would never let that happen."

"You think the System can stop him?"

"It will."

"Oh, I think it won't," said Kalengar. "And I think you won't. And you know what?"

Vaughn shoved the man back. He turned to leave before he lost his handle on himself.

Kalengar shouted after him with a tinge of madness in his voice.

"It's going to be my absolute pleasure to clean up after you."

 

* * *

  

Sasha found himself standing in the living room doorway, lost.

No—wandering.

He'd reaffirmed a few things in the network, and now he was looking for something else to do. The dissections of the day had been extensive, and it seemed like he was a little tired at this moment. His throat was quite dry. His head throbbed. His fingers stung.

Frowning about the last, Sasha looked down at his hand. He was holding very tightly a red pen, which...which he had picked up from the floor earlier to tidy away. Faintly dazed, he went to set this pen in a holding cup on the note counter. He glanced at the notepad idly, not processing the words, and then went to the kitchen for a glass of water to relieve his throat.

When he returned to the living room, the hologram clock on the wall read 4:49. Anna was nowhere to be found. Vaughn, if he worked on a consistent schedule, would likely be home soon. Sasha seemed to lose time in the network, so he decided it was not a good idea to reenter. Having nothing better to do, he turned on the entertainment cube and enlarged the telescreen. A strange comedy was playing.

He curled onto the couch. Time passed a second at a time, tallied numerically in his head. By the seven minute mark, his pulse was speeding and his lungs were demanding more air. It was the isolated, idle solitude—suffocating. Unable to bear it longer, he shut off the telescreen and pulled up his comm logs from his connector instead.

The data kept his mind occupied. Slowly, the inexplicable nerves faded.

Vaughn arrived home within the hour, a beautiful relief on his face when he saw Sasha on the couch. Sasha was surprised by it—the raw vulnerability in a glance, like the mere image of Sasha eased some heavy armor from his shoulders. He allowed the greeting kiss; in fact, returned it.

When they laid in bed that night, Vaughn leaned over to kiss him again. Like yesterday, Sasha clung to the warmth of those lips, undiluted by the day and the lingering indiscrepancies. Or perhaps pronounced by these things.

Of everything that Sasha had dissected since waking, only this kiss felt truly personal. Grounded. Even the network, in all its intimate beauty, seemed hazed around the edges. Sasha could not believe everything Vaughn claimed, but this small taste of memory dared him to sleep without more. The promise of reality that Vaughn had made beckoned in tendrils, the fumes of a gassed drug.

Sasha slid his hands up the Regent's chest. Vaughn touched his wrist, deepening the kiss. Sasha grazed the top button of the silk, and then pulled away, opening his eyes.

Only a single bedside lamp remained on, dim. Was it the shadows of the room which drummed Sasha's pulse? Or the dilated black of this man's eyes? The almost—almost—familiar musk of his skin...

He did not know, nor did he truly understand what he was feeling right now, why his heart seemed ready to collapse any moment. But his thoughts were caught in a mantra: _I need to know. I need to know_.

The doctor had said, _Intimacy._

"I want to ask a favor of you," said Sasha. His voice came out a near whisper.

Vaughn propped himself onto his arms. A soft frown, fingers grazing Sasha's cheek. "Anything."

"An experiment," said Sasha.

He felt guilty as soon as the words left his mouth. To reduce the act of love to a question seemed—callous. But Vaughn only smiled after a pause. He took Sasha's hand and lifted it to his lips.

"Anything," said the Regent again.

Sasha nodded.

Before he could change his mind, he pushed Vaughn flat by his shoulder and crawled atop the other man. Stripped off his shirt. Shut his eyes as those hands trailed his sides. Shivered. His pulse kept rising.

_Keep going._

He leaned down and kissed Vaughn again, seeking comfort in those lips. This time, the hands consuming his vulnerable skin jarred his experience. Vaughn sat upright, a shadow obscuring the lamp light behind Sasha's closed lids. Vaguely, between the thunder, he registered Vaughn throwing off his own shirt. A fine dusting of hair beneath his fingertips. Hard muscles, rich skin, the smell of rose mint and the lingerings of the kitchen ginger. Lips skimming his throat, gasped breaths, a whisper— _Sasha._

Yes, this had happened before.

But his pulse _kept rising_.

Vaughn pushed him down, swallowing his breaths. The pace became passioned, desperate. Fingers in his hair, exposing his throat. Sasha made an unrecognizable noise. And then those hands wrapped around his hips.

"Stop."

No voice. A hardness pressed to his leg. The band began to slip.

"S-stop. Stop. No, no more—"

Vaughn froze.

Sasha pulled away, faced away. He grabbed for the sheets, hands trembling. Pressed a hand over his head and curled. His eyes stung, the wet barely noticeable through the bile in his throat and the nausea in his head. It had all hit so quickly. _Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen._

On the other side of the bed, like an unwound toy, Vaughn staggered upright. His heavy footsteps went rhythmless out of the room.

Slowly, Sasha understood. He was numb for a moment. And then he sobbed.

A long time later, Vaughn returned to the room. He pulled the sheets properly over Sasha's shoulders and sat a respectful distance away. They were quiet.

At last Sasha looked up at the wall.

"In the past, I was..."

He couldn't finish that sentence.

In the silence, Sasha turned toward Vaughn. That man was a shadow utterly drained, like it was but a ghost who nodded once.

Reality. What an awful slice he had grasped. But like an instinctive balm, the image of Vaughn's unguarded face soothed away the ugliness in Sasha's gut. There was something intrinsically warm about that face—a feeling impossible to be associated with the face of a rapist. Sasha's head cleared. He touched Vaughn's limp hand.

Vaughn looked up. Those silver eyes, the impression of security.

"It wasn't you," said Sasha, only half asking.

A pause.

Vaughn shook his head, lowering it. The Regent did not look at him as he lifted Sasha's hand and pressed it to his whisper.

"I've only ever loved you, Sasha. Please believe me. I have only ever loved you."

Sasha exhaled.

For the rest of the night, Vaughn did not touch him.


	5. 5

The next day, Sasha followed his scripted plan.

He did not linger in the house, too reminiscent of the night before. He did not treat that ugly discovery as a lead either. Perhaps in time he would have to, but for now the memory was so raw on his skin that he couldn't face it head-on—much less dive through the details with the precision of an investigator. So he retraced his steps from Arleon Tower, beginning with the most accessible destination.

The past few days had revealed three locations of interest: 42 Eastern, where the June 16th explosion had taken place; Central Hospital, where Louman said he had been delivered following the August 9th transport accident; and Kindle Facilities, where Vaughn had transferred Sasha before bringing him home to the Arleon. Kindle Facilities was government-restricted and his connector band did not grant him access. Sasha could code in a backdoor pass via the network, but he decided to hold off on explicitly illegal behavior beyond the network. Central Hospital was where his morning began.

Central Hospital in Sector 2 was not only the most accessible of his three locations of interest, but also accessible to all citizens of the Skyworld. Despite the open-armed welcome, the spacious atmosphere of the hospital tower was a testament to the city health. Sasha passed by idle doctors lounging in the gardens, languid conversations between visitors and workers, more luxury and life than there was any illness.

Well, he was among the floors seven hundreds. Some old knowledge whispered that down below three hundred, the scene was nothing similar.

Coincidentally, the woman he had come to speak with _was_ in operation, so he waited on an open deck nearby. An elderly couple sat across the space, one in a wheelchair and the other reading to him from a tablet in her hand. Those were outdated things—little silver slates for consumers who wanted the confirmation of touch over the emptiness of holograms.

The couple, too, seemed outdated. In this era, it was not usual to see such visible age—dragging skin and deep wrinkles, balding heads and white, white hair. Science tended to be bought to hide the passage of time. For those who held the greatest power, like the Regents, science could be bought to far extend time.

The anachronism was not bad at first. It felt even beautiful to see the acceptance of inevitability in front of Sasha. Two human beings, letting nature be nature, unafraid of time.

But the longer Sasha watched, the more unsettled he became. When the man coughed and the woman set aside her tablet to pat his back, Sasha realized it—he was not like them. He was distinctly afraid of time, and he was not sure why. His father, perhaps, a victim of cerebral atrophy—that slow-coming death? Or perhaps another matter...

The old man looked up. Sasha looked quickly away.

He opened the screen of his connector to appear busy and not intrusive, scrolling through his contacts to take his mind off the unease. His eyes caught _Myeong_ and paused. His father's surname, so it was likely a grandparent. Vaughn had said all his grandparents had been out of contact for a while; indeed, there was nothing in the message history.

Deciding that it couldn't hurt, Sasha equipped the earchip from his connector and sent an audio call. A script flashed across the holoscreen.

_Invalid number._

Sasha frowned. He flipped through the rest of his contacts for anyone who might be family. Nothing. The Davis's on his mother's side were not listed. Perhaps he had been a particularly unlikeable relative in his past.

Before he could think too long on it, the deck entrance slid open and an older lady walked out. She looked around until she saw Sasha, then approached him with a warm smile. Her arms spread for an embrace.

"Oh, Alex, sweetheart—it's so good to see you well."

After the hug, he said, "You must be Tess."

"Ah—yes. I am. Come in with me, okay?"

Tess took his arm and led him inside.

"Harriet told you about my amnesia."

Tess nodded. "She called me yesterday. I assume you've already seen a doctor about it? Won't be needing any check-ups with us today? Well, I don't mind arranging them if you think they would help."

"No, it's fine. Thank you. I'd just like to see the documents from my stay here."

The documents had not been a part of Sasha's plan when he took the skyrail over to Central this morning. He had intended to simply speak with Tess. Documents, in their cybernetic society, were all accessible via the network, and Sasha assumed he had already reviewed his own hospital files. It would have been investigator's logic to do such a thing at the earliest available opportunity. But midway on the skyrail, Sasha had realized he had never seen the actual documents, as if their review had slipped from his priorities as quietly as a ghost.

An uncharacteristic mistake. Perhaps he had been too overwhelmed with the breadth of data. Total amnesia came with a million bullet points to check, after all. He just happened to miss one or two while going down the list.

Moments later, when he found himself reading the files for the first time in Tess's private office, an inexplicable eere crawled up his spine. He sipped it away with warm tea, which Tess had left at his tableside before she disappeared to attend to other business. The liquid grounded him, but only for the first few pages.

The first few pages contained information consistent with Louman's account: he had been admitted to Central on the 9th, 11:12 PM, unconscious. Excessive bleeding from his left thigh and his abdomen. Injuries marked fresh. But that was where the data struck odd—deeply odd.

Disinfection noted remnants of rust and iron in his stomach wound. Rust—this was not a common thing to be found in the Skyworld. Iron even was a rarity. Silica and potash in his arm. Those were antiquities in the Sky—cheap, undurable things long since tossed to the Ground. A vehicle transporting him in the Sky would not contain either.

Yet stranger than these strange things was the fact that he was reading them now. Sasha could not piece them together with Vaughn's story of a Sky transport accident. If Vaughn meant to hide anything from Sasha, he would surely be more thorough than this. A Regent had that kind of foresight. A Regent had the power to effortlessly alter medical records.

Had Vaughn not anticipated that Sasha would dig? Was this out of character? Impossible—the suspicion and analysis had been instinctive from the moment he woke. Vaughn knew Sasha had an investigation background with CyberSec.

So why?

Sasha wanted to believe that Vaughn meant no true deception, that perhaps, it was only something the man was reluctant to speak about. As reluctant as he had been to nod _yes_ to Sasha's question last night. If the truth was related to _that_ , Sasha might almost prefer to stay in the dark. But it was an operative _almost_ : he needed the whole truth. He wanted to be able to breathe easy. Trust easy. Trust Vaughn.

He wished he had access to an advanced network port at this moment, so that he could dig a little deeper. Later, then. At home.

When Tess returned to the office, Sasha set the files aside and asked, "Do you have any visual logs from the 9th?"

"Well, yes." She paused. "Anything in particular you're looking for?"

"Myself."

"Just a moment."

Just a moment later, she tilted the screen between the two of them. It showed a list of dated files. She tapped one that read _08-09-2586 801.12A_. The file spanned twenty-four hours and displayed the footage of a single empty operation room.

"Let's see. What time did you come in again? I think it was—"

"11:16," said Sasha, "was when the operation began."

Tess scrolled the time to 11:16 PM. Sasha watched five—six figures in the room and beyond the viewing glass, Vaughn by his peppered hair and broad shoulders, three suited and gloved operators, an unfamiliar woman in suit and skirt, and himself, unconscious, pale, covered to his collar by a blue sheet.

Tess paused the footage. "Well, there it is."

"Can I—"

Tess pulled the screen away. "Nope, sorry. Can't let you watch. Already breaking a couple of laws letting you see the footage at all."

"But I'm the patient."

"Laws. Sorry, Alex."

Sasha watched the holo flicker off with irritation, curiosity scratching at his gut. Later, then.

_Later?_

He glanced at his hands. A chill ran down his spine.

Before he could dissect the thought, Tess spoke up.

"Well then. Is there anything else I can help you with, sweetheart?"

Sasha looked at Tess. She wore a warm smile, but with a mechanical gleam over her eyes.

"Do you have time for a few questions?"

Tess paused. "I have some time."

"I won't need much of it," said Sasha. "Harriet says you called in my arrival. She also says it didn't look like I was in a vehicle accident. What do you think it was?"

Tess blinked. "I...Well, I don't know, really. That's not my specialty."

"Humor me."

Tess shook her head. "I really can't say."

Sasha paused.

"The people in my operation room. The ones on the footage. Who were they?"

"Doctors, surgeons. The Regents—"

"Regents? It wasn't just Vaughn?"

"No. Regent Kanisorto was there as well."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I only logged your transfer. They had other doctors on you."

"Then do you know where I was transferred from?"

Tess shook her head, silent.

"Kindle, then. Why was I moved to Kindle?"

Tess shook her head again. She was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable.

"Okay," said Sasha. "Thank you." An afterthought: "How did you meet Harriet?"

The woman blinked. Her eyes slid over the table surface. Her mouth curled and she laughed, but it seemed distracted. Then she shook her head, more time passing, and more time before she finally looked up and said, "It was over a client's case, actually. I was his doctor, and she was his attorney. Very difficult client. Difficult patient too, so we bonded. Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity," said Sasha. "You too seem close."

Tess kept smiling and nodded. "Well, we've all been good friends for quite some time now. Anyway—we should get out of this office. Do you want brunch before you go?"

Sasha glanced at the time on the wall. 10:24 AM.

"I've another trip to make. Thank you, though."

"Ah, no problem. I'll walk you out then."

So she did, seeming quite relieved for his exit.

Sasha's next stop was 42 Eastern in Sector 19, on midground. He took the groundrail down—the vertical rail, contrasting the horizontal and elevated skyrail—and sat in a shadowed corner. The details of Central Hospital stirred his mind.

It bothered him like claws on his stomach that somehow, he still did not know where he was between June 16th and August 9th. But more than this was the fact that the other information _had_ been easily accessible, about the rust and silica, about the two Regents at his operation tableside. Yet he was only coming upon these things three days after waking. Two days after full access to a network port.

Negligence. Could it truly be negligence? Was such a thing possible, when at this very moment, his mind had vivid clarity of a webwork of questions, answers, and next steps? But what could it be, except for negligence?

Sasha shook his head. _Go easy. You were out for three months._

He tapped open his connector mainscreen regardless. A precaution. Investigator's skepticism. Survivor's instinct. His fingers hovered over the holoscreen keyboard.

And then, blinking, he screamed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The blood splattered the bathroom sink, pungent and fresh. The razor blade laid tossed on the marble counter. With a gasp, Sasha collapsed to the floor.

The footsteps came a moment later, followed by a frantic knocking at the door.

"Sasha? Sasha!"

Vaughn.

Shaking, Sasha pressed at the door lock. The modern white smeared with crimson. The door slid open a moment later, inviting the smell of garlic and spice into the heavy copper.

Vaughn took one sweep of the bathroom counter and dropped to his knees. He grabbed at Sasha's upheld hands. On his left palm was a long, singular cut, bleeding for a while now.

"What happened?" said Vaughn, unsteady.

Sasha searched his mind. The last thing he remembered was the groundrail. He could not feel the pain of the wound through the terrifying cold.

"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't...Oh, god, Vaughn, I can't remember anything."

It was one thing to wake up blank. It was another to have never been asleep.

Like the gaping pit of his memory would swallow him otherwise, Sasha curled forward. Vaughn hesitated for a moment. Then a hand swept down his back, pulling him into a solid, fierce warmth. Fingers threaded through his hair and a murmur kissed his ears. Only then did Sasha feel his own wracking tremors and the hysterical breaths building in his throat.

"Hey, hey, it's alright. You're alright. I have you, love."

Vaughn brought Sasha to the living room couch, where he gently tended the wound while he waited for Sasha's hysteria to fade. For a while, Sasha was not sure it ever would. Every electric snap of his mind seemed to gravitate toward that pit between the groundrail and the bathroom. Every blink stained with the blood in the sink, a scene from a nightmare. He had been in there alone while Vaughn was cooking. Why? Why would he cut himself, a streak across the palm?

Across the palm?

"I don't know," said Vaughn.

Sasha glanced at the Regent and realized he had spoken aloud.

"I heard the door shut about ten minutes before you screamed. You seemed fine before then."

Sasha swallowed. "What was I doing before then?"

Vaughn tied the knot on Sasha's bandages and looked up, frowning. "You were in the workroom." He paused. "When you say you don't remember, what exactly don't you remember?"

Sasha looked up toward the clock. 6:34 PM.

"The past seven hours," said Sasha. "If it's still September 6th."

Vaughn was silent for a moment.

"What do you last remember?"

"The groundrail. I was going to visit 42 Eastern. Is it still the 6th?"

Vaughn nodded.

"I'll take you to see a doctor," said Vaughn. "Someone I trust."

Trust? Who could Sasha trust?

"I..."

"Please, Sasha."

A hand brushed his cheek. Sasha looked up.

"I can't walk in on you hurting yourself again," Vaughn said softly.

Sasha searched his eyes, unhidden and imploring. He touched the hand at his cheek and leaned into it, shutting his own eyes, feeling a little less alone in his swallowing fear. A logical feeling? Perhaps not, because these circumstances made Vaughn less trustworthy than he had been last night. But Sasha didn't want logic right now, not when he could still feel the aftershock of the tremors in his bones. Didn't viscerally need logic, as he did this comfort.

He nodded. "Okay."

They left then. Sasha, wrapped thickly in layers for the night weather, was silent most of the ride. The cityscape calmed him like a dream, but every so often would spike the fear that this dream would become another blank in his memory. Forgetting was quite like dying. He must have already died once, and he was afraid to endure it again. Not this Sasha, this frightened man trying to breathe—this clawing man desperate for truth. How far had he gotten?

Central Hospital records. Silica and potash. Regent Kanisorto.

Had something happened on midground, at 42 Eastern?

Or at home? In the workroom, the network? The bathroom?

Or was it just a physical lapse?

"Dr. Mehari."

Sasha glanced at Vaughn, who had initiated a call on his connector en route.

"It's Scio. Are you available right now?"

A pause.

"Yes, please. I'm on my way to your office with Alex. He appears to have had a black out today. I need you to run some tests. Find some answers."

Another pause.

"Yes. I would appreciate that. Thank you, Dr. Mehari."

A while later, a thin Richard Mehari walked Sasha through a brief medical interview, took some notes on a private holoscreen, and ran a brain scan. He inspected the 3D projection beside Sasha and Vaughn, a frown drawing his thick eyebrows. Seeing his spindly fingers pinch through the holographed electric blue of Sasha's mind, Sasha nearly shivered.

At last the doctor said, "It appears to be self-inflicted."

"Self-inflicted?" said Sasha.

The doctor pushed up the medical glasses on his nose. "Yes. Likely related to the cause of your total amnesia. The human mind is quite resourceful in its defenses, you see. Part of the deletion may have been to protect you from trauma. And the episode today may have been triggered by something quite distinctly related to this trauma..."

Trauma.

Given last night's reaction to a sex attempt, Sasha was not so surprised. But the assertions of a third party laid out the indiscrepancy plain. He turned to Vaughn, swallowing. Rust, silica, and potash. "You said it was a mechanical error. An accident."

Vaughn was quiet. He didn't end up responding. To Dr. Mehari, "Is there anything you can do to keep something like this from happening again?"

Dr. Mehari nodded. "I'll take Mr. Myeong for a second run of tests, if you don't mind. There is some restorative therapy I can administer tonight. It might be able to bring back a few memories from today."

Sasha stared at the doctor. In his peripheral, Vaughn nodded.

"That would be good."

"Come this way then, Mr. Myeong."

A pause.

"Sasha?" said Vaughn.

Doubt tugged at Sasha, kept him standing where he was. But not knowing what else to do, not given the space to dissect this doubt, he could only brush off the chill and nod. He followed the doctor into his private room, leaving Vaughn Scio alone in the outer office.

 

* * *

 

As soon as the door shut, Vaughn left the building.

Out on the private deck, he pulled his connector's earpiece into place. The bud was numb in his cold fingers, the holographic script almost sharp as he dialed. He swallowed remnant bile before the call connected.

 _"Regent Scio,"_ said a woman's voice.

"Sancotte. Did you get the report from Mehari?"

_"Recieved and reviewed, Regent. I took a look at his conn trail as well."_

"Well? What happened?"

The words came out cutting teeth, sharpened by the image of the blood in the sink. That hadn't been a part of the plan. This memory gap wasn't a part of the plan. The trembling and terrified body in his arms wasn't a part of the plan.

_"It looks like the System crashed out."_

"Explain that."

_"I did a quick manual inspection of the Tree right after I got the message. There's been nonstop trigger activity on Myeong since around eleven this morning. The System either couldn't keep up or determined that a blank was the best solution."_

"Has this happened before? Will it happen again?"

_"It's happened before. Not often, obviously. Can't say it won't happen again with him, but at worst the System does another clean wipe. I wouldn't worry, Regent. For a blank of a couple of hours, some suggestive therapy should get the filler code running smoothly again."_

Vaughn leaned over the deck balustrade, his head in his hands. Yes, today's episode could be fixed—was being fixed by Mehari as they spoke. But another clean wipe? Those eyes, untrusting again. Hands shoving at him, afraid of being touched. The System was supposed to protect Alex. But if Alex kept making an enemy of it, he would lose more than Vaughn could save.

_"Regent?"_

"Keep the tracker on active alert," he said. "We need to keep an eye on him. Let him dig up what he needs to, but not far enough to trigger the System."

A pause.

_"We can leash him out here, Regent. But what about the network? That's his domain."_

"Follow the plan. Demari and I will deal with everything else."

_"Roger that."_

He pulled the chip out of his ear and ended the call.

An hour later, back inside the office, the patient and the doctor walked out of the private therapy room. Alex exited first, a soft frown on his face and the pale look gone. Behind him, Mehari caught Vaughn's eye and nodded.

Vaughn stood as Alex approached him.

"How was it?"

"Good," said Alex. "Can we go home?"

They did.

Back in the privacy of the falcon, as Vaughn was pulling off the deck, Alex lifted his bandaged hand.

"It was an accident," he said.

"You remember?"

A faint nod.

"I went down to midground. 42 was closed off. I came home and fell asleep. I was washing my hands to help you with dinner and grabbed the razor instead of the...pen..."

"The pen?"

Alex shook his head. "Someone left a pen in the bathroom. I meant to bring it out. I must not have been paying much attention to what I was grabbing. But I saw the blood and I lost it." He paused. "It wasn't a traffic accident on August 9th."

The cityscape lights passed in sharp monotony.

"It wasn't," Vaughn said quietly.

A silence hung.

"Then?" said Alex.

"I can't, love. I made a promise."

"A promise."

Vaughn paused.

"When you were in that hospital bed, I swore I would do whatever it took to keep you safe." He turned toward his lover. "You don't have to trust me right now, Sasha. But I swear, Sasha, everything I say, everything I do—it's to protect you."

Alex gazed back at him, his beautiful eyes ever as sharp. They shadowed beneath a frown, and Vaughn felt a crack in his heart.

"Give me the truth and I can protect myself."

Vaughn looked away. He pulled his hands away too, back upon the falcon steering wheel.

"I'm sorry, Sasha. I can't."

"Vaughn—"

"I love you," he said, staring at the lanes. "Believe it, or don't. But that's the only truth I can give you tonight."

It was silent the rest of the way home.

It was silent through a tasteless dinner. Worn and tense, Vaughn set away the dishes, checked his work logs, filed his updates for the Council, bathed, changed. In bed he kept to his side, waiting for weight of the mattress to shift behind him. He turned off the lights then.

"Good night, Sasha."

Nothing.

Vaughn closed his eyes.

A hand skimmed his back. A warmth neared his side. Lips grazed his cheek.

"Good night, Vaughn."

Vaughn turned, his heart pounding. Alex had already curled away beneath his thick covers, a body perpetually afraid of the cold. The touch of his lips lingered on Vaughn's skin, filling his chest with an intense adoration, a staggering relief, and a quiet, insidious guilt.


	6. 6

There were twelve fish in the aquarium, and a thirteenth which might be dead.

Cross-legged, Sasha sat on the rich velvet carpeting, watching the beautiful creatures drift through the pristine water. It was 9:20 in the morning. Vaughn was not in the apartment. Anna had come and gone. The network had been Sasha's destination, but upon entering the workroom, he had discovered hardware issues with the port machine. It wouldn't boot up.

Curious that a top-of-the-line machine would malfunction the day after Vaughn admitted to withholding the truth. Last night's conversation felt liquid in his head. Only one moment was solid, twined with a hard, bare profile and the raw words, _I love you_.

_I love you._

Love came in many different forms. Selfish, selfless, giving, taking. Wanting, adoring, devoting. Kind, consuming. Dangerous, safe. Which was it?

Desire, that much was certain. Those pupils ate into silver whenever Vaughn looked at him, and physiology didn't lie. Beyond this point Sasha had his guesses—from the tears in the patio to these reactions whenever Sasha was distraught or harmed, sincerity bled from the man like Sasha held his unarmored heart. Affection could lie, yes, but _this_ degree could not be worth the effort of a Regent.

So, then, Vaughn loved him, in some form.

Sasha doubted this less today than he had before that vulnerable admittance in the falcon. That should give him security, but alongside the broken network port, the thought disturbed Sasha like the thirteenth fish. Vaughn was a Regent after all, insurpassably powerful in the State. What kind of truth cowered a man like him? Drove him to deceive a lover, break a port machine? To say, with rigid pain, _You don't have to trust me_.

Certainly, it was a truth more dangerous than Sasha had imagined.

It could be a psychological danger. It could be criminal. Sasha preferred the psychological: a trauma that might cripple him if remembered. This would be the more innocent truth, matching up with his hand episode and black out, with the sex, the wounds on his body. Brutal as the trauma would have to be to fit the story, Sasha leaned toward this conclusion.

But a criminal danger remained a possibility: no doubt there was information floating around the State that could cost lives, and with all the network knowledge that Sasha possessed, it was reasonable to think that he had stumbled across some in his past. And if it was a criminal danger, then his amnesia was, as he had suspected from day one, man-made.

Logic told him to leave it be. Trust the most powerful man in the State and indulge in this lovely, maybe constructed reality. But instinct told him there was no substitute for truth.

Torn between the two was how he found himself in front of the fishtank, envious of these simpler creatures. He could change now, throw on another sweater and a jacket, head down to midground for a deeper look. Visit Kindle Facilities, see if anyone could answer some questions. Spend time in a cybercafe—the network ports wouldn't be half as reliable and he wouldn't have access to all the new network tools he had constructed these past few days, but he could make do. See if he could find his grandparents' updated contact information. Then...

Sasha covered his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes, forehead. He felt exhausted. What was this addiction to truth? It was almost certainly going to cost him. Why couldn't he just accept the safe alternative? It seemed like such a lovely life. He didn't even remember what he was missing, if he was missing anything. In any case, what could be better than this?

Comfortable, in the Sky. A home with the prettiest view of the State. A devoted, powerful man as his lover. A caring friend in Harriet Louman. A prestigious career. Any luxury he wanted at his fingertips.

In the aquarium, the thirteenth fish twitched.

He shook his head, pushing upright. Shoving off his thoughts, he went to dig through the medical cabinet. He found the pills that the first doctor Muzara had given him, to prevent future memory lapses. The label on the bottle didn't make it seem like the pills would help with a trauma-induced blackout, but with his memory so hazed at times, he was willing to give them a shot.

After he downed a dose, he turned on some radio music from the entertainment cube. He found a curious book on electromagnetics while browsing his connector library, and sat down to read. He made it through two chapters before the restlessness hit again, but by then it was raining outside and he did not feel like getting wet. So he took a loop around the apartment, ended up back where he started in the living room, and reopened his connector.

This time, he went methodically through his list of contacts.

He had done this before, reading the logs of his personal contacts and the unlabeled ones. Those produced nothing striking and mostly concurred with what Vaughn told him: Sasha kept very much to himself. Going through his professional logs, he found that he was just as distant in the workplace. Perhaps a necessity: by the sheer quantity of messages, most of his days looked quite busy.

Vaughn had said that Sasha divided his role between investigation and development. His connector contained no explicit data on his cases and projects. But it seemed like he had been working on some kind of conjoined primary assignment with a project team for a long time—further back than he could scroll for the messaging histories.

Beyond the project team, Sasha's main professional communications seemed to be with the Department of Justice and the Department of Public Security—mentions of warrant requests, data requests, access requests; a few casual exchanges with his most frequent contacts in said departments. Sometimes, he reported to superiors. Never did he engage in extended private conversation with any of these people. In fact, he was quite the professional bore over messaging: concise, proper, and generally emotionless.

Sasha was beginning to tire of reading himself when sunlight crept through the windows. The rain had stopped. The hologram clock read _11:49 PM._

Just as well. Sasha had insisted that Vaughn let him make his own lunches after the second day, but Sasha turned out to be rather bad at cooking. He could use some fresh air and a nice cafe. Perhaps a cybercafe.

He went to the bedroom to change into warmer clothes. His usual jacket, which he had been wearing on his daily excursions, hung in the closet by the apartment maindoor. He pulled it on and exited to the deck.

As usual, he didn't like the cold—even this tame autumn chill. As he walked toward the elevator, he slipped his hands into his jacket pockets to keep more warmth. His right fingers grazed paper. 

He stopped. His pockets had been empty yesterday morning. He didn't recall putting anything inside...

Frowning, Sasha pulled out the paper. It was a torn, folded notesheet. He smoothed it out.

A message was scrawled in red ink.

 _Tamanu balm bottle. Check when you're_ _alone_ _._

The strike beneath that final word had Sasha glancing around the deck. He had total privacy on the top floor of the Arleon, but his throat dried regardless.

Tamanu balm bottle. There was one in the bathroom. Vaughn had said it was for Sasha's scars and bruises, but Sasha rarely used it. Twice, so far. Vaughn certainly never did—he wore no scars.

But why the balm bottle? And who had left him this note? Vaughn? That didn't seem likely. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but then again, few people handwrote anything. Sasha wouldn't even be able to recognize his own handwriting between his amnesia and the infrequency. His own handwriting...

He looked down at the script.

No. No, he'd see what was in the bottle first before he went down that line of thinking.

Tucking the note into his jacket, he turned back toward the apartment. Vaughn was not due back for hours—or so he thought. He'd set aside his coat, made it to the bathroom, fished out the opaque balm bottle from the lower drawer when the doorbell chimed in announcement. All he had time to notice was that the bottle was light in his hand, far lighter than when he had last used it, as if the heavy balm inside had been depleted. Or replaced.

Curiosity burning, but pulse racing, Sasha shoved the balm bottle back and flushed the toilet. He washed his hands and walked out a moment later.

Vaughn was in the kitchen, setting down a large brown bag. Sasha opened his mouth to greet him, and then saw his face.

Rigid. Cold. A concentrated intensity about his eyes—a dangerous cast that was entirely new. Sasha recalled a thought from day one that _this_ Vaughn Scio could be an impostor, not a real Regent—and the network files had proven that wrong, the people they met had proven that wrong, but it felt as if today, this moment, was the first time Sasha was truly seeing Vaughn Scio, the Regent.

He looked so easily like the man who would condemn six hundred million people to the Ground. Proclaim it a justified act of survival, then lounge within the peaks of the Sky. Ruthless and untouchable.

And then the Regent looked up.

The transformation of his features was unhinging. It was as if what had been metal beneath his flesh melted until his lips could smile, and the iced glaze of his skin softened to folding lines, a dimple in his cheek. His eyes had been like blade steel, and now they looked like starlight—astoundingly beautiful. Horrific in that duality.

"Sasha," said Vaughn, so warmly.

Sasha did not know how to feel. Scared? Or moved? Powerful. Yes—that he could make a face change so drastically in a glance made him feel faintly intoxicated.

He swallowed and said, "You're back early."

"Ah, yes..." Something strained that smile. "It was a trying morning. I called off the rest of the day. Have you eaten?"

Sasha shook his head.

"I brought sushi. Come, let's eat."

They laid out the meal over the dining table, the one facing the sprawling city view. This room was the soft epitome of luxury, themed earthen browns and warm reds, accentuated by tall, fanning green plants. Two vases atop the table sported fresh magnolia flowers, set by Anna this morning. A screen set into the table asked Vaughn if he would like musical accompaniment for the meal, and then a gentle instrumental began to play. Sasha enjoyed lunch as finely as anyone alive could ever hope to.

But the sushi eel, top grade and lovely, still reminded him of the thirteenth fish. Vaughn, too, was uncharacteristically quiet.

"What happened this morning?" said Sasha.

There was a pause.

Vaughn set down his utensils and looked out over the cityscape.

"When a man takes it upon himself to run a state, you can be assured that he has very strong opinions about most things."

Sasha tried to translate that. "The Council had a disagreement."

Vaughn nodded faintly. He didn't speak for another pause.

"The six of us don't agree on many things. It's not a bad thing for the State—we're a council of six because diversity and conflict are necessary for progress. But sometimes..."

Sasha watched his lips still, parted, the tip of a tongue curled in between. Its tip clicked silently against his teeth, and then Vaughn turned to him. His silver eyes became half-lidded and veiled.

"Sometimes," said Vaughn, "it feels like I am in a constant state of war. Does that make sense?"

Sasha tilted his head. "If you'd like to share the point of disagreement, maybe."

The Regent shook his head. "It's been going on for a few months now. The problem is that the other five generally agree on this, and I'm the odd man out. Well, normally I know when the battle's lost, but this isn't one I'm so comfortable ceding. It's—troubling, to say the least."

"I'm noticing that."

Vaughn smiled faintly, a side-glance for Sasha. "You do notice everything, love."

"Yes, and you still haven't specified a point of disagreement."

Vaughn chuckled. He looked away.

"It's about the Grounders. We've been having some malfunctions with the Tag. Came up a bit particularly recently. I shouldn't say much more than that."

That sounded quite conclusive. Sasha tried another route.

"There must be some unity. The State wouldn't run if the Council spent all its time disagreeing. You wouldn't have been initiated if there were not some common ideology among you all."  

"There is."

Vaughn watched Sasha with a knowing patience.

"The security of the State," said Sasha, a little irked to be tested. "The integrity of its structure? You disagree on the means, but you all think the Grounders should be put in their place." Again, he felt that vague, disturbed distaste. "You treat them as criminals if they aren't Tagged, but they're just trying to be like those of us up in the Sky. Free."

Vaughn looked away again.

"Well, yes. To run the State, we do need to be concerned about its security and integrity."

"And the Grounders? What do you make of them?"

A frown settled on the Regent. "I don't pretend that what we do to them is ethical. But ethics were for a time when our species was not on the brink of extinction. The Skyworld's often too full of luxury for most people to think of it this way and the Ground is too hellish for anyone to care, but our era is fighting a war for survival. As the commanders of a state in crisis, our priority is the future of humankind, not the present of individuals. I suppose that understanding is the unity that the Council shares." 

"But humanity is comprised of individuals. The future is built upon the present. The distinction is not as simple as you make it sound."

There was a pause before Vaughn chuckled softly. "You're right. Entirely. But there comes a time when we are...necessarily practical. Ideals are for when we can afford them."

_Ideals._

Sasha had another thought about ideals. It was flickering along the edge of his mind, out of reach. His mind caught on another thing instead.

"You said your mother was from the Ground."

"Yes," said Vaughn. He stood up and collected his plate. "But that's a conversation for another time, love."

Before Sasha could feel disappointed, Vaughn came and kissed his brow. Pulling back, the Regent looked down at Sasha. He wore an affectionate smile.

"Thank you for asking about me, though."

Sasha hesitated to respond.

After Vaughn had taken the plates back to the kitchen, Sasha looked out over the cityscape.

He had asked after Vaughn because he had been curious. His curiosity had been coated with a layer of concern, yes, but concern had not been the root of his motivations—not even after that unnerving initial expression, the obvious strain of their meal.

 _I love you_ , Vaughn had said.

But had Sasha loved Vaughn?

He had tried to answer that question two nights ago, but sex was only sex. If he could still feel terror and disgust, as with the grasp at his hips, if he could feel warmth and comfort in a kiss, then should he not be able to feel love?

What was love supposed to feel like?

Was it that familiarity, that security, from his lips and his eyes? Was that it?

"Sasha?"

Sasha glanced at the Regent, hovering in the doorway with a smile.

"I have the rest of the day off. Would you like to go out? See a film, or visit a museum?"

An aquarium, perhaps.

Sasha nodded. "Yes, I'd like that."

They went to the aerial botanical gardens. It was a comfortable day. But it felt like balm for a wound, a retroactive soothing, and the rich, clean luxury of this perfect life just didn't seem quite enough. 

 

* * *

  

Later that night, Sasha closed his eyes in bed and waited.

He did not often stay awake once he laid down. Sleep came quickly when he wanted it to. But conscious, idle, the numbers ticked in his head, in the dark, alongside his pulse. It reached a point where he began to shiver beneath the covers. His lungs felt tight. His ears thundered so loudly he almost could not hear the soft, rhythmic slow of Vaughn's breath. Asleep.

  1. 180\. 181.



Sasha shifted away from the hand curled around his waist. Vaughn stirred. Sasha paused and waited some more.

  1. 199\. 200.



Quietly, he slipped out of the bed and into the adjacent bathroom. In the dark, he fumbled out the balm bottle and gently twisted loose the cap. His fingers felt paper inside, maybe a dozen folded sheets, indented with script. But he couldn't read them with the lights off, and he dared not wake Vaughn with the lights on. As silently as he could manage, he brought the bottle to the workroom and turned on a desk lamp. He dumped the papers onto the table.

Blood splattered them, a clearer mark of ownership than any forgotten handwriting.

His bandaged hand trembling, he flipped over the first and began to read. 

 

* * *

  

An intense vibration at Vaughn's wrist woke him.

His eyes blinked open at an empty bed and the glaring lights of his connector's holoscreen. It took them a moment to adjust.

_F-A13 access requested._

Alex's falcon.

Vaughn jolted upright. He hit  _deny_ on his screen and swiped to  _all access_ — _lockdown._ Not bothering with shoes or jacket, he rushed out of the bedroom, out of the apartment.

_It's a slip. Just a small slip._

A terrible one. 

Out on the skydeck, Alex was scrambling in vain at the manual keys of the elevator doors. His jacket was half-on, a thinly clothed shoulder vulnerable to the night chill. His face was stark in the deck light. His fingers were clutching clumps of notes, and shaking furiously.

He saw Vaughn with a look of terror and began to back away.

"Stay—stay away from me."

Pain laced through Vaughn's cold body—old pain, too familiar. He had to remind himself to breathe.

"Sasha, love..."

"No, stay away—stay—"

A hitched whimper. Alex had backed himself up to the elevator sidewall, and Vaughn was quickly approaching. Vaughn's eyes were on the piece of paper in Alex's left hand, the one that Alex kept glancing at. Whatever was on it was likely preventing the System's memory script from running properly, and Vaughn needed to get rid of it. Fast. Before the way this man looked at him pushed him past the brink. 

Alex scanned the deck. His gaze caught on the cityscape.

"Oh, no, Sasha, don't..."

Alex ran. Vaughn exhaled.

With strides far faster than the younger man, he caught Alex in his arms before Alex could reach the deck edge. He thought this kind of heartache was finished, but seeing the man he loved claw for the lethal fall was nearly worse than anything of the past.

 _It was going to be a bluff_.  _Just a bluff._

Still, the seams were splitting open.

"Let go of me! Don't touch me, let go—"

"Shh, shh, baby, don't cry now."

Alex screamed as Vaughn pried the note from his left hand. Pressing Alex's head into his own shoulder and tucking his body into a lock, Vaughn gazed at the note behind the man's back.

A streak of dried blood marked the top, deliberate.

_DO NOT TRUST YOUR MEMORIES._   
_DO NOT BELIEVE VAUGHN SCIO._   
_GET OUT OF HIS HOUSE._

_ DO NOT LET GO OF THIS NOTE. _

Vaughn breathed, the night air slicing his lungs. He curled his fingers into Alex's hair as the man struggled, pressed his lips to that soft, pulsing throat.

"You break my heart, love."

"S-stop... Let me go, let me go, please..."

Vaughn released him. Alex stumbled back. His eyes were wet, darting toward the notes in his other hand.

"Is my love not enough for you, Sasha?"

Alex looked up.

"Am I not enough?" Vaughn said softly. "Even like this, am I still not enough?"

Alex took a step backward.

Vaughn followed, a single, fast stride. He had Alex back in his arms before the man could properly cry out, had his shaking fingers unraveling beneath Vaughn's hand. Gripping Alex tight, he stole the remainder of the notes into his own pocket.

"I'm sorry, Sasha. This is the only way I can protect you."

"No, no, I don't want—"

"Hush, baby. I'm here now. Everything is going to be alright."

"Don't do this to me, please, Vaughn, I—"

"You're alright, love. Remember? You're safe with me now. You're always safe with me."

"Vaughn—"

Vaughn pulled back and kissed him. His kiss persisted through the desperate struggle, the pitched protests between their lips. Relentless, he took Alex's fear and swallowed its sweet tinge, caged that lovely body in his arms, until slowly, slowly, the resistance faded.

At last, Vaughn drew back. His Sasha looked around, quiet and fragile. 

"Vaughn?" he whispered, voice scratched. Frowning, he touched his throat. "What am I..."

Vaughn pressed the tears away from those vulnerable cheeks. 

"It was a nightmare. You were sleep-walking."

Alex shivered. He curled into Vaughn's arms.

Vaughn held him dearly and murmured, "It's alright. You're awake now. Nothing will hurt you here, my love."


	7. 7

Sasha woke in Vaughn's arms, which was a first.

The clock at the bedside read  _Friday, September 8, 7:46 A.M._ It was a little later than Sasha had been waking this week, but fairly in tune with his biological clock. He recalled an uncomfortable night, a hazy trip to the bathroom, and a lost sequence of dreams. The cold deck air, and Vaughn's warm body. Hushed murmurs as he was led back inside.

Vaughn had stirred him a drink to help him sleep. Sasha was not sure when his sleepwalking had disrupted their night, or when the man had slept afterward, but guilt pricked at the sight of him still unconscious. By this time, the Regent was usually on his way to work.

Because  _work_ was running the entire State, and quite important, Sasha placed a hand on his sleeping face.

"Vaughn."

A stir. A soft noise.

Sasha brushed gently over his brow.

"It's nearly eight."

Those eyes flickered beneath a frown. Sasha was momentarily fascinated by this waking process—the unfocused vulnerability, the faint disorientation across an unmasked face. Vaughn blinked four times before he took in Sasha, and then he stared.

A relieved sigh. The man closed his eyes again and pulled Sasha into his chest.

"Stay," he murmured into Sasha's hair.

Sasha paused.

"No work today?"

Vaughn hummed. His fingers curled into the fabric across Sasha's back. Before Sasha could figure out what that ambiguous noise meant, the Regent seemed to have fallen back asleep.

His grip was resting, firm. His warm breaths swept Sasha's skin. It was not altogether uncomfortable, but Sasha was beyond the point of sleep. He laid there regardless, captured by that soft  _stay_. Curiously, he didn't feel the compulsion to count numbers. Even so, after twenty minutes in, the gnawing idleness and stiffening muscles extricated his body from Vaughn's hold. The man reached after him but did not wake.

Upright, Sasha gazed down at his face.

It was becoming an intimately familiar face, but the cast of sleep colored it different. Less mystery, less power. Just beneath those dark lashes, his skin was lined with exhaustion, folding softly and darkly. There was age where his brow drew, along the corners of his eyes, the corners of his mouth. Yes, that was right—Vaughn Scio had about two decades on Sasha, though the science of the State more or less halved that gap. But he was handsome for it—like age softened what would otherwise be too sharp, those bones beneath his cheeks, the sculpt of his nose and jaw.

Sasha had been wondering about love yesterday. Maybe he'd been overthinking. Maybe love was as clean and simple as this—a sense of security, a comfort in vulnerability, and a dash of physical attraction. It certainly sounded right. What could love be, after all, if not these things?

He sighed, releasing an unease from yesterday. In time, he would probably come to feel properly for Vaughn again. The whole truth might elude Sasha yet, but in the process of grasping for it, there was no need to be unkind to this man.

Like a seal on that thought, Sasha leaned down and kissed his cheek.

He rolled out of bed afterward and went to the bathroom.

Walking over the tiles, he suddenly recalled that pocket note from yesterday. Yes—how had he forgotten it? He had been thinking about checking the balm bottle the whole day at the botanical gardens. With Vaughn asleep, it seemed an appropriate time.

The balm bottle was where he had left it yesterday afternoon, in the bottom drawer. Pulling it onto the counter, he twisted the cap loose.

Inside was a tucked note. Beside this note, a pink rose. The curl of its petals suggested it had been sitting inside the bottle for some time now. Sasha touched that delicacy, momentarily enchanted, then removed the note and unfolded it.

In red ink:

_Tea cabinet, chrysanthemum box._

Sasha cupped the rose in his hand and walked out of the bathroom. He hesitated in the bedroom, gazing over Vaughn's sleeping form. His heart did a strange thing as he went to find the chrysanthemum box.

Inside the box was a blue rose, and another note.

_Workroom desk, 2nd drawer._

Sasha followed the trail.

Hidden around their home were nine colored roses, distinct and rich, the spread of a rainbow. The final rose, a deep, classical red, laid in a bowl on the patio table, beneath a glass lid, above a final note. This note was written in elegant script. Sasha set his roses on the table and sat down to read. 

_I know your life might feel like a sketch without your memories. My love, I would give you the most beautiful palette to color it with if I could. I cannot repaint the past for you, but I can promise you this: For as long as you have me in your life, I will do whatever it takes to make your future as full and as vivid as the array of these flowers. - V_

His fingertip traced the lines of that  _V_. A romantic gesture verging on picturesque, perhaps even a little overdone. But his chest stirred regardless. 

He folded the note carefully into his pocket. The roses, he collected inside the bowl and brought indoors, a decor for their bedroom drawer top. Vaughn was still sleeping.

It was nearly nine now. Hungry, Sasha went to prepare breakfast. His mind was preoccupied with the emotional softness of that trail of flowers; he almost didn't notice that everything in the kitchen seemed to have been tidied and rearranged. Had Anna come and gone already? But there were no new groceries.

An odd thing. In his current distraction, he didn't overthink it.

Eventually, cooking a decent meal consumed his attention. On the singular occasion that he had attempted to cook something for himself, the dish had been so bland he couldn't even remember it. Today, because Sasha intended to make breakfast for Vaughn as well, he put in a bit more effort. He laid out their ingredients and gave the sprawl a proper assessment.

Seaweed. The packet caught his eye. And...cucumber. Red chili, garlic. Was there sesame seed?

No sesame seed. That was alright. He could make do.

He prepared some easy egg toast alongside his cucumber dish. When he was finished, the cold soup a healthy, garnished green, he spooned a taste and smiled in pleasure. Despite the chill of the liquid, a warm feeling filled his chest.

Not like the flowers. Guiltless. Full.

A gentle, swelling ache.

He swallowed, lost.

A door opened from the corridor.

Pushing away his thoughts, Sasha brought the meal into the dining room. Vaughn appeared in the archway a few seconds later, a surprised look on his face. His gaze flickered between the dishes and Sasha.

"I made breakfast," Sasha said, arranging the plates and utensils. "I wasn't sure if you'd have time to sit down and eat with it being so late already, but I was hoping..."

Vaughn had approached. He took Sasha's shoulder and turned Sasha toward him. A kiss stole his lips. 

After a slow, sweet moment, Vaughn pulled away.

"Thank you," said the Regent.

His voice tinged with emotion. It was just breakfast, and yet it appeared as if Sasha had given the man oxygen. Struck again by the power he seemed to have over this man, Sasha felt a shiver of uncertainty. He placed a palm over Vaughn's chest, like he could press the man's heart into its own safe home again.

"No," said Sasha. "Thank you. You've been nothing but kind to me. More than kind. I've been thinking mostly about myself. I can't imagine how hard this all must be for you too." He pulled away and looked at Vaughn. "I'd still prefer it if you told me the truth, though."

A humored smile graced the Regent's lips. "So there  _is_ a motive behind this meal?"

"Well, yes. To feed you. Do you have work today?"

"Minor business," said Vaughn. "There's no hurry."

Sasha pulled out a seat from the table. "Let's eat then."

So they did.

A few spoonfuls into the soup, Vaughn said, "This is delicious. Did you just come up with it?"

"I remembered the recipe."

Vaughn looked at Sasha, surprised. "From where?"

Sasha had been thinking about this since that taste in the kitchen, the ache in his chest.

"My father, I think. It's a Korean dish." The next words slipped from his lips before he realized what he was saying. " _Oi-naengguk._ "

Sasha frowned. The diversity of language had been lost to the Ground. How would his father know...?

A spoon clacked against a bowl.

"Ah. Right. Your father did have some exceptional recipes. "

Sasha looked up. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the Regent suddenly appeared strained. Related to the mention of his father? Before Sasha could ask, Vaughn reached for the egg toast and spoke again.

"Did you have any plans for today, Sasha?"

"Not yet."

"Good," said Vaughn. "I'm going to send you some work files to review for Monday. If you feel ready to return to work then, that is."

Sasha's pulse picked up.

"Yes, definitely."

"Try to look them over today, if you can. I'd like you to have your weekend free."

"For?"

Vaughn smiled. "I'll tell you in the afternoon."

Sasha didn't press. He was preoccupied with the anticipation of returning to CyberSec—work. The nudging void of his perfect life maybe, just maybe, could be filled by the purpose of a job. And if not, CyberSec was still the home of their world's most advanced network ports, complete with matchless navigation and architectural tools. Truth, if Sasha still wanted it, would be within his grasp again.

Truth.

For a moment, with the roses, Sasha had briefly believed he could let the past go. But now his mind was racing once more, submerged in the sprawl of the all-knowing network.

Some minutes later, Vaughn informed Sasha that he would be leaving now, but back around the usual time. With a  _thank you, love_ for the breakfast, Vaughn collected the dishes to return to the kitchen. It was then that Sasha's thoughts extricated themselves from cyberspace. His eyes had caught on the bowl in Vaughn's hand.

He wasn't sure whether to be slighted or confused. Despite the man's declaration that the soup was delicious, the gentle green filled the bowl, as if untouched since Sasha had murmured its name.

 

* * *

 

The files that Vaughn sent him were extensive, containing the typical paperwork of a new CyberSec and government hire and detailed notes on his assignment. The project file was labeled  _SA23 (ADM)_ , which Sasha eventually figured out was an acronym for System Architecture 23, Alexander Davis Myeong. In Sasha's professional messaging logs, he had found every acronymed project to contain the letters  _SA_ ; Vaughn had also mentioned on day one that this System had been central to his CyberSec work. Strange that he could not remember anything about the System when he could remember obscure coding languages and family recipes, but then he read the project objective:

_Full literal decryption of the Astrid Nnamani Regulatory System for future infrastructural augmentation._

Full literal decryption. This System had not been translated to accessible code yet. The State couldn't read one of its own assets? No wonder Sasha couldn't remember it. He had yet to get a literal read of it. But that was fascinating—how heavily encrypted must something be to require years of work from the State's best network architects? And what did it  _do_?

That answer was in the next pages of the project file, marked  _CONFIDENTIAL - FOR FIRST RANK PERSONNEL ONLY._ Once Sasha verified access to those pages with a pulse check and a print scan, a transparent timer appeared in the upper corner. Fifteen minutes before automated file deletion.

He only needed a two minute scan before a chill crept beneath his skin.

The Astrid System oversaw Ground management. Vaughn had mentioned this before. But he did not say that the System governed the Tags—the blue-light implants surgically lodged into the nape of the Grounder's spine. Without that Tag, Grounders were denied healthcare, education, legal access—could be detained and even killed on sight. With the Tag, a Grounder's movement was traced by the System like a perpetual eye, an alert sent to the Sky officials whenever they crossed the bounds of their cage into the Sky. But this was not what made Sasha nauseous.

The System was not simply a monitor. The file detailed it as a regulatory system.

A homeostatic regulatory system.

According to the document, it managed the psychological state of the Tagged. Sent electric prompts to the brain to maintain chemical indifference in times of significant emotional disturbance.

No wonder the six hundred million citizens of the Ground were as tame as sheep. No wonder they hadn't already knocked down the foundations of the State, sent its Skyworld towers toppling. Homeostatic control was not foolproof against a serious resistance, but it was still horrifically dehumanizing. Brain-state alteration was a science they had deconstructed about two centuries ago, but considered so taboo in the Sky that its citizens pretended such techniques did not exist. Even Sasha, faced with obvious cues, still hesitated to believe that his amnesia was entirely manufactured. 

To control the vast majority of the population by psychological tampering—Sasha had been a part of  _this_?

He pressed his hand to his stomach. Bile churned.   

No. Think. What was the alternative? 

 _We are on the brink of extinction, and this is survival_.

But his life up here was so indulgent, so excessively rich.

_The Skyworld is too full of luxury for anyone to think of it this way..._

Sasha shook the thoughts away. He could figure out his morals later. He had about seven minutes left to read the rest of the confidential file.

Seven minutes later, he shut off his connector screen and closed his eyes. He saw Vaughn beneath his eyelids, across the dining room table, that all-powerful Regent who allowed for a reality like this. Six hundred million condemned human beings, tamed on a leash like dumb cattle. How could he do it?

 _My mother was a Grounder_.

His eyes fluttered open. His heart ached.

Was that it? For the security of the State, the future of humankind...for the sake of this conceptualized duty, Vaughn Scio would make himself a stone cold statue? Sacrifice even his humanity. But he still woke up in the middle of the night to tuck a frightened Sasha away into bed, left him a trail of beautiful roses. Was he a monster who donned the face of a man, or a man who donned the face of the monster?

Sasha pulled the morning note out of his pocket. Traced its gentle lettering.

Maybe, just maybe, that disagreement Vaughn had mentioned having with the Council was over the ethics of this System. Maybe Sasha was working for CyberSec merely to decrypt this System, not to augment it. Or at least to install a bit more humanity into it, however that could be done. Maybe adapt a less violating version of it. Maybe there was a reason to all this madness.

 _Or maybe you felt differently in the past_.

Sasha swallowed.

If he had been the kind of person who would proactively support this System, then maybe it was for the better that he had lost all his memories.

With a forced professional detachment, Sasha went through the rest of the files. He had only a few short pages left when the bell chimed. The clock read 4:14 PM. He realized then that Anna had been absent the entire day—and it was Vaughn Scio who walked into the living room.

Vaughn smiled at Sasha, that same heart-melting curve.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Sasha frowned at him. "Not really. This System sounds atrocious."

The smile on Vaughn's face faltered. He glanced away. "It...is. But until we can think of something better, we need a way to keep the peace. For everyone's sake." He paused. "We are not gods, after all. Just human beings trying to keep each other alive in a desperate situation."

Maybe it was the guilt in the Regent's tone, that heavy look. Sasha's heart eased a little.

"There are better ways," he said simply.

Vaughn nodded. "It would take a lot of compromise from people who are too happy and too powerful to compromise, I'm afraid."

"You're powerful."

"I'm not the only actor on stage. Let's...shelve this. I want to do something special for you this weekend."

Sasha glanced at the note still in his left hand. He looked at Vaughn. "What is it?"

Vaughn smiled again. "Go on and pack some clothes. I'll meet you on the deck."

Fifteen minutes later, they were inside Vaughn's falcon, driving through the upper skylanes. He stopped by the commercial district to pick up some groceries, which prompted Sasha to ask, "Is Anna alright? I didn't see her today."

"She has some family matters to attend to. I don't think she'll be coming back."

Sasha frowned. "Family matters?"

"I'm not sure of the details, love. Is there anything you feel like listening to?"

Sasha was not particular. Vaughn picked a beautiful instrumental, lovely for the fresh blue sky.

They alternated between flight mode and lane drives for about an hour, taking to the skies when possible, and recharging the falcon engine power on the lanes when flight reserves ran low. Conversation came intermittently, simmering to a pause when Vaughn began to play the radiocast of an audionovel. Some curious literary book about a diseased anthropologist. The speaker was narrating about the death of aspirations as they passed the central government towers of the capital sector.

Eventually, the inner-city sector towers began to fade. The navigation panel indicated they were in Sector 44, the afternoon fading to evening, when Sasha's curiosity got the better of his patience.

"This is far out."

"Not far enough," said Vaughn. "We have about another forty minutes to go."

Ten minutes later, Vaughn took a deep turn down the lanes. Sasha found them quickly immersed in winding paths and the looming shadows of buildings around them. Below the opulent tip, the State was a rich sprawl, impossible to visually navigate without the panel overview. The open decks were bright with evening life, and the hanging platforms of this sector's commercial centers were three times as vibrant as in the work hours of the mornings. Through the open glass of a theater tower, he saw the filling of an opera hall.

As they went lower, the citywork became overwhelming. Vibrancy turned to clutter, and clutter became dry and dark. They were just above the midground, and Sasha wanted to ask again,  _Where are we going?_

He didn't. The glum of the lower city was becoming swallowing when Vaughn steered the falcon off the lane. The engines switched to flight mode, and then they were winding through the mess of the lower Sky. 

Slowly, the mess began to lighten.

The towers of the Skyworld shrank. The dark guts below midground disappeared. A warning prompt appeared over the falcon's control panel, which Vaughn dismissed with a press of his fingertips.His connector blinked green lights at the same time. Soon they entered an area which seemed to be archaic, where a glance down below revealed the ground—the real ground, between large factory towers and turbines. And here, there was no Sky but the real sky.

In the distance, the vermillion cast of a sunset ocean glittered.

Sasha inhaled, breathless.

"It's an energy port," said Vaughn. "Citizens don't have access here. But it's one of the few places where you can see the Ground and the Sky at the same time."

Sasha had no words. He was immersed in the unreal imagery of the horizon. A line where two worlds met.

They flew longer yet. The turbines and factories fell into the background. In the far distance, Sasha could see the border wall of the State—rows of filtration pipes towering past midground, keeping the earthly pollution out of their air. The residues of their old nuclear wars gathered near ground level, but between the filtration pipes and the elevation, hardly any poisons reached the luxurious Sky. The Ground lived with risk, but far less than those who inhabited lands beyond the State.

 _This is survival_.

No longer immersed so deeply in the dream-state of the indulged Sky, Sasha understood that sentiment a little bit more. But that horizon—it was so beautiful. Why did survival have to mean erasing it? Casting it all the way out here, to a place few people could see?  

Eventually, the falcon lowered itself to the ground. A sanded place near the ocean, tufts of unkempt shrubbery. A single house above a seacliff. Sasha stepped out and breathed in the salted breeze. Staggered, turning full circle around. To the far left, the border of filtration pipes. The far right, the turbines and factories. Behind it, the distant towers of the Sky and the distant sprawl of the Ground. In front of it, the horizon.

The sunset on the sea.

"This isn't real," he whispered.

Vaughn came behind him and placed a hand on his waist. He kissed Sasha's hair, murmured there, "It's as real as you want it to be."

Sasha reached for Vaughn. Curled his hands in the man's jacket. He couldn't look away from that image of natural infinity.

"I..."

Vaughn waited.

Sasha shook his head. No Sky. No Ground. No network. No System. No memories.

Just the free, endless beauty of the earth, the sky, and the sea.

"Yes," he said.

Vaughn didn't ask what that meant. He only held Sasha closer. They stood there for a long time, until the evening chill and the ocean breeze brought up a shiver.

"Come inside," Vaughn said. "I'll make us dinner."

Vaughn moved away, pulling his hand. Reluctant, Sasha turned and followed the man.

His eyes then caught on the State. The Sky, the Ground, the line in between. That peace he felt staring at the horizon was smothered by an overwhelming weight. A churn in his gut, a twist in his heart.

Inside, the smell of wood and sea dust brought him back to his enthralled comfort.

It was a quaint house, and the fact that it was a house was quaint enough. Such stand-alone structures were lost relics of the past. Fascinated, Sasha touched everything from the moss-green couch to the fur rug, the fireplace mantle, the carved dining table. The power source seemed to be connected to the rest of the State; holographic panels sprawled the kitchen, and the machinery was modern. Not too modern. Hanging along the wall was a traditional photograph of a young boy, a woman, and a man. Sasha peered at that bold nose, the deep-set silver eyes. The boy was Vaughn.

As if seeing his thoughts, Vaughn said from the kitchen, "That's my mother and father. This house belonged to him."

Sasha looked at Vaughn. "How did he come by it?"

"He had it built for my mother," said Vaughn, setting up the ingredients for their meal. "She didn't like the elevation of the Sky very much. He didn't want her in the smog of the Ground. This was their compromise."

Sasha wandered over to help Vaughn with the cooking.

"How did they meet?"

"A business trip. He was checking some facilities on midground. She worked there during the day. Things went from there. Here—can you dice these carrots, love?"

Sasha took the carrots. "Did you live here?"

"For a time. I was schooled in the upper Sky, but I'd take some vacations here."

"Did your mother ever take you to the Ground?"

"Yes. Not often. It's not a place for your children, but she wanted me to know what it was like. And to understand the kind of place she came from."

Sasha was quiet for a moment.

"How did you come to be a Regent?"

Vaughn chuckled. "You know, we've had this exact same conversation before. Can you guess what you will say at the end of it?"

"What will I say?"

A silence.

"'You gave up too soon.'"

Sasha hesitated. "What does that mean?"

Vaughn scaled a fish gently over the sink. "It means there was a time when I let you down." He looked up at Sasha. "So I'm trying very hard not to do it again."

Sasha looked down at his carrots.

They went on cooking in silence, except for the intermittent instruction from Vaughn. All the while, Sasha tried to steady himself. Something felt relentless today. Vaughn. From the late morning, to the roses, the note, the kiss at breakfast, the house, and now these words—if a heart could be won in a day, it seemed like the Regent was following the perfect script.

Following it still, they had a candlelit dinner in the patio outside, watching the night cover the sea. Beautiful, comfortable. But later, when he bathed and retired to the bedroom, Sasha leaned against the opened eastward windows, breathing the salt breeze that now tasted like city smog. These windows faced the State, and the image brought back a weight to steal his peace.

His eyes traveled the gut of the Ground, the line of the towers—all the way up to the speckled gossamer canopy of the sky. That sweeping view was somehow familiar, almost intimately familiar. The longer he stared, the heavier it felt, until he felt a hole opening in his heart.

"Sasha?"

Vaughn had returned from a trip to the falcon. He slid a hand up Sasha's robed back, brushed wet hair from his brow. Sasha looked at him. Warm eyes, kind skin. The feeling went slowly away.

"It's nothing," said Sasha. "Thank you for all of this. It's very beautiful."

Vaughn glanced at the window view. "Not physically." His eyes cast over the metal and clutter, a raw growth into the clean lights above. "It's a vision of totality. Here we see the two ends of a great spectrum. Two worlds." He looked at Sasha. "Makes you feel grounded in the simpler reality of another man's presence." A pause, hesitation in the brief downward cast of his moonlight eyes. "Am I more real to you now that the world you see is honest?" 

The sea wind, straying his hair. Sasha felt an unconscious wall dissolve and wanted suddenly to touch his skin. To check if it was warm as usual, or as strangely vulnerable to the air as his person seemed to be.

"I can't remember what's real," Sasha said. "But I think I would like it if you were."

Vaughn's eyes processed those words. After a moment, Sasha turned back to the cityscape. In his peripheral, the other man shifted. Reached into his trouser pocket.

"Here."

Sasha turned back to Vaughn, who had taken his hand and was pressing something into it. The object felt strange—shaped, but slightly rough. Almost prickling. Small enough to sit in his palm. 

Vaughn covered it so that Sasha couldn't see. Sasha looked instead at the man, questioning.

"A birthday gift. I owe you."

He pulled his hands away. Sasha looked down.

In his hand was a small bird, crafted from straw. Feathers twined into the wings, and the wings were so finely woven that Sasha could see each detail mimicking the feathers of real birds. Wings spread, as if flying. Flying into the—

_Sky. It means 'sky.'_

His fingers shook. Daring not to drop this precious thing, he cupped it with both hands.

"Where...is this..."

"It belonged to you," said Vaughn.

Sasha looked up. Vaughn blinked in his blurred vision, then looked away.

"You nearly lost it during the...accident. I thought you would want it back."

"Who gave this to me?"

Vaughn turned slowly back to Sasha. His eyes were momentarily unreadable, then distorted by a raw pain. Gently, the Regent cupped Sasha's cheek.

"Don't you remember, love? It was me."

The burning at his chest sharpened. Sasha searched those eyes, that face, for the same intensity this little bird evoked. He felt unbearably confused, and Vaughn seemed to see it.

He grasped Sasha by both hands now, and said, "Can't you remember me, Sasha? Can't you remember the way I make you feel? Tell me, Sasha—what do you feel when you're with me?"

Sasha shook his head. Vaughn kissed him.

"What do you feel?" he asked again.

Sasha lost himself in the familiarity of those arms. Holding the bird to his heart, he pressed his head to Vaughn's shoulder.

"Tell me," murmured Vaughn.

"Warm," he whispered. "Safe. I feel—safe."

"That's right, love. You're safe with me." His hands traveled down to the knot at Sasha's waist. Through a surprised, hitched breath, he pulled it loose and grazed the bare skin beneath. "You're safe with me. So let me show you—let me help you remember. It was me."

Sasha's hands trembled. He was so afraid to crush the bird. Afraid to lose it—this intense memory, somehow more visceral than anything else—more consuming than the network, more intimate than their kiss, more ferocious than his fear of being held down by another.

That mantra came back to his head, not driven by logic or self-preservation, but by that small straw thing in his hands:  _I need to know. I need to know._

"Sasha—"

He tore himself away from Vaughn. Shaking, he went to set the bird safely on the nightstand. Then before he could think about what he was agreeing to, he slipped the bathrobe off his body.

The cold was biting. He folded his arms over his chest. He glanced over his shoulder at Vaughn.

The Regent gazed at him. After a moment, he shut the windows. He walked over and picked the robe off the floor, returning it to Sasha's shoulders. "Not like this, Sasha. Let me love you."

Sasha nodded once.

So it began again gently, with the soft clinking of a belt coming undone. Sasha turned and watched as Vaughn stripped himself. As the last bit of cover left the man's skin, Sasha felt his nerves slip away—because he was still covered in his robe, and the man before him was utterly bare. Willingly vulnerable.

"Sit down, please."

Sasha sat.

Vaughn kissed him, deeply as if to impress his want. Yet his hands skimmed gently, never firm enough to be mistaken for the dominance of claiming, not like that other night. His lips drifted from Sasha's mouth to his throat, to his collar, his chest. A kiss upon his peaked nipple, and Sasha gripped Vaughn's hair at the shock of that sensitive contact. Fingers skimmed between his thighs. A murmur swept his stomach.

"You don't know how much I've missed this."

Sasha glanced down. The low pitch of that voice stirred his gut.

"Lay down for me, love."

So he did. The dark ceiling stared down at him as the kisses peppered his skin.  _One. Two. Three. Four_ —

He gasped.

"Vaughn—"

A hand clasped his, stopping it as he reached for the man's head. Sasha glanced down, jarred by the image of those broad, bare shoulders, the cheek by his thigh, the dip of that sharp nose and the cast of those long, rusted lashes. The lips around his sex, impossibly good. His head swam with pleasure, intoxication coming in waves of heat. He stopped counting. 

It was nearly a painful loss when Vaughn pulled away. He grabbed a bottle from his trouser pocket, then slid onto the bed a moment later, prompting Sasha to readjust his body. He kissed Sasha with a tinge of salt and said in a low voice, "I need you to keep your eyes open. Can you do that for me?"

Sasha nodded.

"Good. Lay back. Tell me if you need me to stop."

He laid back again. Vaughn coated his right hand. A bit of unease simmered, a want to ask if they might not do it like  _this_ tonight. But if this was how they normally had sex, then it was the best route as far as eliciting old impressions went. Quiet, Sasha let Vaughn grasp his sex, rolling gently as his right hand slid between Sasha's legs. He only stirred when those fingers reached too intimately.

"I—I don't think—"

"Look at me, Sasha. Just look. It's me."

Sasha had forgotten. His eyes had traveled frantically. Now he looked back at Vaughn, and the panic faded.

Vaughn slid a finger inside him. Sasha gripped his arm.

"It's alright, baby, I have you..."

At some point, he closed his eyes. That was a mistake. The dark, cold tendrils grasped him instantly. With a swallowed noise, he opened his eyes and saw Vaughn again. Calmed again. But his heart still raced furiously, and he didn't quite like this. No, not at all.

There was something familiar though. Something inexplicably evocative of that little bird's intensity, heightened at the familiar soothe of that voice... Coincidence? Or Vaughn?

He grabbed Vaughn's hand.

"That's enough."

"Sasha?"

"Just—that's enough. I want—you."

A pause.

Suddenly, a shadow covered him. Vaughn caught his mouth. A different kiss, less the controlled deliberation of before. Less the gentle consideration. Those hands dug into his skin, consuming. Sasha shivered, a sound lodged in his throat. At last Vaughn seemed to notice and pulled back. He frowned at the look on Sasha's face.

"Do you need—"

"Keep going," Sasha said. No voice. He swallowed. "Keep going."

The next moments were a blur. An incomprehensible mixture of viscous fear, of desperate warmth in Vaughn's voice, of security in his eyes, lust, disgust, comfort, confusion. Sasha counted again. The numbers, he suddenly realized, did something. A small part of his mind removed itself, nearly logical. It was stringing these incomprehensible things together.

When Vaughn held apart his legs and entered him, Sasha heard a strangled noise. Vaughn didn't seem to notice, sliding deeper before the wracking began. Then he froze, grasped Sasha in his arms, kissed his skin, murmured hushes to his ear, said, "It's me, baby, it's me."

Sasha didn't respond.

Vaughn paused and began to pull out.

Sasha gripped his hand.

"Keep. Going."

Vaughn hesitated. His expression looked pained.

"Please," whispered Sasha. "I remember."

So Vaughn breathed, and filled him.

Sasha held him close. Breathed the familiar scent of his mint and musk, felt the beats of his heart, listened to his voice in murmured gasps, whispering  _Sasha_. He focused on this, because this was the only thing that made him feel grounded. Against that swallowing fear,  _this_ , Vaughn Scio, was the warm intensity that tided him through. Why it took the memories of rape and this visceral terror to conjure, Sasha did not know and he did not care to find out. He only understood that he felt this same, aching passion when he looked at that little bird—that in this act, this essential feeling was diminished by raw horror when he closed his eyes, came back when he opened them to Vaughn Scio.

When it was over, Vaughn kissed Sasha's stained cheeks, gentle as ever. Sasha placed a hand over that man's heart, thundering. He thought of the roses, the note, the sweet promises. The little bird.

Staring at the dark ceiling, Sasha felt something release inside him. If he could feel  _this_ toward that man, and if he could feel  _that_ without him, then perhaps there truly were some things better left untouched.

Vaughn's hand trailed toward his sex, unfinished.

"No," said Sasha. "It's fine."

The Regent paused. He pulled back, gazing over Sasha's face. "Sasha?"

Sasha touched his cheek, as if that face was finally familiar.

"It was you," he said.

Vaughn stared back. He exhaled, like all the hidden burdens of his world escaped in a breath. Eyes shutting, he turned into Sasha's palm, where his lips pressed and his tears stung. Silent, he held Sasha close.

Sasha laid there, still shivering, clinging to this warm peace. There was something hidden, imperfect below the seams. But the bird was precious and the shadows were dark, and all he cared to know right now was that his lover marked the difference.

_Enough. Let the past rest._


	8. 8

Like the intermission of a theater performance, the rest of the weekend in the seaside house passed comfortably and uneventfully. Tamed by the little straw bird, Sasha no longer let himself entertain his suspicions and merely enjoyed a thoughtless, simple  _being._ Sunday afternoon, he tucked the bird into his pocket and brought it back with him to the central Sky, where it found its home atop the bedroom drawer, beside the array of roses from Friday morning's note trail. Though it had been days, the petals of the roses had not wilted as they naturally would. A chemical science preserved their romantic beauty, and perhaps would for another week longer.

The next day, Monday, Vaughn brought Sasha to work.

The Department of Cyber Security occupied the full expanse of what people called "The Ladder": two twin and slim towers, searing seven hundred floors well into the sky, linked by twelve perfectly horizontal bridges in the image of its namesake. There was no distinguishing between the two towers, except that one was closer to the Imperial—this one was the Development Tower; the other was Investigation.

Vaughn docked on the roof of Development after passing through the six surveillance rings that hovered invisibly around the structure. Security on the interior was equally dense, with connector access required at every door, sensors likely logging every step. There were no guards; no doubt measures had been built into the walls that could lock and incapacitate any intruder within seconds. Monitor eyes dotted the ceiling of every hall, and every room as far as Sasha could see.

The first pair of human eyes which spotted them faltered as they approached. They belonged to an older woman, whose eyes went wide, sliding from Vaughn to Sasha before she stiffly inclined her head. She greeted the former with a quiet "sir." She said nothing to Sasha, but flitted her gaze over several times as he passed.

She was not an exception of courtesy. Soon, they came across another employee. Then a pair. Then a fifth. All the way down the marbled halls, each person had the same reaction to Sasha: seeming to recognize him, but welcoming his return with nothing but silent stares.

Unnerved, Sasha sidestepped a group in a passing lounge. They had been laughing at a man's joke, and seeing Sasha, the smiles had slipped from their faces. Just beyond earshot, Sasha heard the indistinguishable cuts of whispers drift behind him.

He followed Vaughn into a quiet stairwell.

"Why are they like this?"

The Regent hesitated on a marble step. He glanced at Sasha before continuing onward.

"Does it bother you?"

"Naturally."

Another pause.

"You're the youngest Senior Architect the Department's ever promoted. Your colleagues would admire you if you'd ever given them the opportunity to. But you prefer to keep them all at a distance."

His messaging history had indicated as much. But  _this_ much distance? Had Sasha not so much as smiled in hallway passings? Helped a coworker with small tasks, started an idle conversation or two? Built the foundations of  _any_ relationship? His near-death hospitalization and three-month absence seemed to court no sympathy, not from a soul.

"There's more to it than distance," said Sasha.

"Jealousy is a powerful separator," said Vaughn.

It was unconvincing. But Sasha held his tongue, sensing the edge of discomfort in the Regent's voice. This conversation could wait until they were at home.

They soon came into a noiseless part of the complex: an open hall washed white from top to bottom, so spotless that it felt like a sin to walk over the ground. Synthetic plants decorated the interior and framed network art hung from the walls. A crystal arrangement of binary characters dangled from the ceiling. When they rounded the winding corridor, the aroma of coffee drifted into the hall.

Soon they passed the open doorway to a kitchen area. A red-haired woman, mature, was stirring at a drink on the counter. She paused at their appearance.

"Regent Scio. Myeong. Good to see you again."

The first of anyone in this building. Though grateful, Sasha did not know how to return her cordial greeting.

Vaughn smiled in his stead. "Judith, it's good to see you. Alex, this is Judith Sancotte. She's the leader of your project team."

"Thank you for having me back," said Sasha.

She cocked her head. "Thanks for making it back. The others are in the network. Let me clean up the kitchen and then I'll be right there."

Sancotte stepped back into the room.

Vaughn touched Sasha's back, indicating forward. "This way."

Further down, they came to a set of double doors, locked until Vaughn scanned his connector beneath its sensors. The doors opened to a room not as white as the rest of the complex, the floors speckled like glazed granite, the lights dimmed so that the electrical pulses from the machines were stark. The machines, advanced virtual ports reclined in the image of massage chairs, lined either side of the room—twelve of them total, six occupied. Sasha could see why the rest of the area had been silent: all six users were deathly still beneath their helmets.

Adjacent to this room was a view room, which Sasha followed Vaughn into. A panel of clear glass separated the two. The view room, which was smaller, sported a wall of monitors. The lower row logged code script of what the users were doing inside the network; the upper row displayed a warped image translation of what the users currently perceived in the network. Six columns were set to  _standby_  and the other six ran busy. Vaughn pulled up the control screen for one of them and pressed the audio transmission key.

"Director. It's Vaughn. Do you have a moment?"

The script monitor slowed. The image monitor blinked out to standby. A man in the first room removed his helmet.

He saw Vaughn first. He glanced at Sasha next. It was fleeting. His face was something chiseled from stone, indecipherable and flawless—the sort of flawless that might have been bought from science. When he stood, he matched the Regent in stature. When he walked, he carried some airless, inhuman grace from the network with him.

He came into the view room without so much as a smile for greeting.

"Regent."

"It's good to see you, Will," said Vaughn. He turned to Sasha. "Alex, this is Willian Demari, the Director of Development. He has direct oversight of the System projects, so you will be seeing quite a bit of him."

The name was familiar, but not warmly. As far as the messages logged in Sasha's connector went, his exchanges with this man had been curt enough for toddlers' books.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," said Sasha, offering a hand.

Demari eyed it for a moment before giving it a single shake.

"It was," said Demari. "I'm told you retain most of your technical knowledge, at least?"

"Yes. I've read the work files as well."

"I suppose that's better than nothing. We'll have Sancotte get you started on it today. You can wait for her in the port room."

It was a dismissal. Surprised at how quickly it came, Sasha glanced at Vaughn. Demari was already speaking to him.

"I have the report for you in my office, Regent."

Vaughn turned to Sasha. "I'll leave you here then. Give me a call when you're finished."

Sasha paused, having the sudden impression of a child being dropped off at school for the first time, and the classroom was brutally cold. But reviling the vulnerability of that image, he shut away his discomfort and nodded. A chaste kiss brushed his lips, momentarily warming him. Just as Vaughn pulled away, Sasha glimpsed a tense look from the director. It was gone in a blink, so quickly replaced by a stone professionalism that Sasha wondered if he had imagined it.

The Regent and the director left. Soon, Sasha was joined in the port room by Judith Sancotte, her coffee now absent. With another brief introduction, they settled into adjacent port chairs. The foam of the seat and the electric weight of the helmet restored to Sasha some old comfort, easing the rigidity of this unwelcoming atmosphere. Breathing deep, he closed his eyes and followed Sancotte into the network.

Liked the advanced port in Vaughn's home office, the CyberSec machines produced total immersion. His consciousness was transferred to a virtual form in a standard domain space. Architectural tools hung around the walls of the room, code wired into the shapes of common surgical items: compasses, calipers, magnifying glasses, scissors and scalpels, needle trays, some indistinct shapes to be reformed to their user's liking. Before he could inspect them, as instinctive curiosity begged him to do, a voice echoed in his head.

_Myeong. Can you hear me?_

It was Sancotte. Aside from her virtual voice, the words visualized as script in the air. Sasha touched the small green button beside this script to respond.

"I'm here."

_I'm sending you permissions to the SA23 lobby. Join me there._

An orange invitation script appeared. A moment later, Sasha was inside an enclosed hall that mirrored the real halls of CyberSec. This one was not a stainless pure white, but underlaid by lines of blue code, ready to warp at the whims of its controller. Nine doors lined the far side, the central door being the largest. Sancotte stood in the middle of the hall, dressed more professionally than she was outside the network. Sasha hadn't modified his own outfit, but he wondered idly about how he would. Cotton sweater? Warm trousers and soft slippers. It wasn't cold inside the network, but he was always cold outside of it.

One by one, Sancotte walked him through the doors of the domain space. There was a tool room and a storage room for related models, an entryway to the Department Library, an entryway to the State Library, and entryway to the security archives. Another doorway opened to an unused workspace, and the door beside it was marked  _SENSITIVE WORK IN PROGRESS - DO NOT DISTURB._ Sancotte skipped the wide door in the middle, prompting Sasha to ask, "What's in there?"

His voice echoed through the shared network space like regular human speech. Similarly, Sancotte replied, "We'll get to it."

After a quick tour through the remaining rooms, Sancotte stopped before the final central door, which was overlaid heavily with visible security scripts. Even the selected visual was the image of a thick, latched metal gate, the sort that no man or machine could break through. When Sancotte pressed her hand to the print reader in the center of the door, a vivid red script blinked above it. An automated voice spoke as loud as an alarm.

_Requesting entry permission to the Astrid Nnamani System Domain. Please wait._

"Your daily work will be on segment copies of and extracts from the System code," said Sancotte, "but you can request access to the original code here."

"Who has access?" said Sasha.

Just then, the script flashed green. The metal gears on the door began to rotate.

"Now? The Council and the CyberSec directors. Entry access requests route to the director and are flagged for the Council. Come and take a look."

Sancotte walked through the open door. Sasha followed, an electric ripple distorting the area where skin met the active security scripts. Just as the rippling ended, blackness swallowed him.

All of him—his avatar disappeared. Bodiless, he hung in an empty space.

A security process?

A glitch?

He tried to call out, but he had no voice. No mouth. No vocal attributes.

He was beginning to worry when a white line emerged into the black. It seemed to source from the empty space where his avatar core was meant to be. This line spiraled and branched at an exponential rate, and in seconds, formed the figure of a human being. No—the figure of a particular human being.

Sasha stared at himself, naked and sexless, forged from thin and pure light, transparent where the weaves were spaced. A white heart beat beneath a laced chest, both lined in the image of loose fabric. Strands of hair lifted to no breeze. Two empty eyes stared back.

_What..._

The white-woven Sasha flickered, like an eerie disconnect in the network. Its ghostly hand reached for his formless presence. Sasha took a legless step backward—

And stumbled out of the blackness. Sancotte was talking at him.

"...hear me? Is everything alright? Hey, Myeong?"

He blinked. The white-woven body was gone, his own body restored. His feet hovered over air, in an unbound, endless space. His pulse raced, thundering beneath his rushing thoughts.

"I'm fine," he said quickly. "Security freeze, I think."

Sancotte frowned. Sasha looked around as if nothing had happened, determined to keep the incident private. He did not let himself think more on it either, leaving the dissection for a safer time.

"What happened to the door?" he said, noting the archway had vanished.

"It's terminal entrance here," said Sancotte. "The only exit is to disconnect from the network."

Unsurprising _._ This much security precaution was expected for the Astrid System. What Sasha had not expected was the image of the System itself.

Astrid was a magnificent tree inside the network. She loomed like a tower without ground and sky, the matrix in her millions of branches, the scripts hanging in strings like willow leaves. Her trunk was a perpetually undulating cylinder of code, the waves emanating from sprawling roots that writhed in soft rhythm. In this macro field-view, the code concentration was so dense that the tree looked nearly solid.

But she didn't just court awe. There was no breeze within this network space, yet those hanging leaf scripts stirred as if alive. Sasha realized suddenly, from the structure of this program and the distribution of those leaves, that those must be the Tags. Lives condemned to this placated drifting. It was beautiful, undeniably. But those millions of willow leaves, single-lined and utterly vulnerable, struck Sasha as a glorified atrocity. He wondered how the creator had felt when they finished this code: Satisfied? Disappointed? Or so lost to the process and the product that they'd lost their sense of judgement, too?

"Can I examine it?" he said.

"Go ahead."

Sasha pulled up his navigation panel and selected micro field-view. His avatar shrank, ant-like beside the Tree. He typed in coordinates and was soon standing before a segment of the root code. Fascinated, he peered at the characters of this code—characters, because the lines were not readable. In fact, there appeared to be no lines: simply individual shapes floating in distinct locations in space, without properly shared x or y axes. Even some of the characters themselves were distorted, resembling nothing of the common alphabet. Frequently the code moved, displacing and distorting the characters even more.

"We're meant to decrypt this?" said Sasha.

"The State has been trying since Nnamani's death," said Sancotte, who was following him.

Sasha traveled the sprawl of code while they talked.

"And when was that?"

"About a century ago. The project was put on hold for several decades, but circumstances have changed in these past few years. Criminal Ground matters, issues with the Tag. It's a priority project now. We need to be ready to adapt the code if we're to keep the State secure."

"How far have we gotten?"

"Not very far," said Sancotte. "You seemed to be making the most headway, but your notes and tools were kept on your private domain. You'll be logging your progress in our shared cabinets this time, of course."

Sasha took a few steps closer to the trunk code of the Tree. Those unaligned characters beckoned to him like the fleshless fingers of a witch, disturbing and enchanting at once. He reached forward, unsure if he wanted to break the spell or be swallowed by it. Neither happened: inches away, his body froze to an immobilization script.

"That'll be the security lock," said Sancotte.

"I can't decrypt it if I can't inspect it," said Sasha.

"You need admin bypass," said Sancotte. "Demari will give you access after I run you through the rest of the orientation."

A moment later, the security lock released him.

"Fine," said Sasha. "What's next?"

"Relog," said Sancotte. "I'll meet you back in the main lobby."

Her avatar vanished. He lingered a moment, still magnetized by the great Tree. He felt this visceral itch to sink his flesh into its roots, to see if there was a pulse inside the beautiful monstrosity. But with his hands tied, he could do nothing yet.

"Command prompt," he murmured. "Disconnect."   
  


* * *

 

In the privacy of Willian Demari's locked office, the Regent and the director watched the sprawl of the System domain. Silence kept their company, interrupted only by the electric voices of the virtual Sancotte and Myeong. The Regent was tense, standing with his arms crossed and his brow firm. The director was less so, stirring hot coffee as his gaze flickered between the visual network projection and the code logs.

Only when the two architects vanished from the network space did Scio speak.

"Anything?"

Demari shook his head. "All regular."

"And his entry freeze earlier? It was security?"

"Internal security, System code." Demari closed the script and visual projections. "It was clean. You don't have anything to worry about."

The Regent loosened his arms and strode to the window glass, where the refraction of his expression was obscured by the city towers.

"Yet. Having him in that domain puts us on a minefield."

"I wouldn't be so concerned." Demari leaned back into his hard leather seat. "Between you, me, Sancotte, and Louman, we have him boxed in. And should he claw his way out of the box, there's still Astrid Nnamani keeping him in line."

Scio shook his head.

"I'm not worried about him getting out. I'm worried about him ripping himself apart to do it. The System fed him a blank already, and I don't want it wiping him again. We don't have any data on the internal damage from that kind of interference." He faced the director. "It's not just my personal stake talking. If we lose his mind, we lose the decryption key."

"What would you like me to do?"

"How quickly can you extract the key?"

"Hard to say," said Demari. He sipped his drink to think. "In theory, he should be able to follow the same logic he used before to find it. But the System did erase itself from his memory, and it might have taken a few logical triggers as well."

"We need that key," said Scio. "Do whatever you need to do. The sooner we get it, the sooner we can call game over."

Demari inclined his head. "I'll do what I can."

"I'm heading to the Council. Page me if anything comes up. I have you on priority."

"Of course."

"Take care, then."

"And you, Regent."

The door shut with a clean click.

Alone, Demari waited for a minute longer. When it seemed like the Regent was gone for good, he pulled up the holographic code script he had dismissed moments ago. What he had idly glimpsed over before absorbed his attention now: that six-second entry freeze when Alex passed the System domain security gate. In the visual log, his avatar had simply frozen for the duration. But within the script, the code log recorded empty data. As if, impossibly, nothing had happened—or as if something had bypassed a hundred layers of advanced security, dusting its own trace into thin air.

Demari accessed the code log on administrative oversight. He filled the blank with a fake security script, erasing the final evidence of its suspicious nature. When it was done, he sipped his coffee, the warm liquid oiling a quiet murmur.

"Game over? He's just getting started, Scio."   
  


* * *

 

Bennie stumbled through the smeared doors of the clinic, her rubber boots wailing against the scratched linoleum floor. The perpetual air of cheap disinfectant and stale Ground sweat filled her lungs, burning from the run across the lower city. A tiny one-handed child scrambled out of her path, and a man with a dirty beard cursed as she knocked into his crutches. She hit the reception desk wheezing.

The boy behind the chipped counter hissed as his drink sloshed onto his hand.

"Shit! Watch it, Ben—"

"Haneul," she said between gasps. "Where is he?"

The boy pointed rightward. "207B. But he's in operation—hey, Bennie! Hey, what the hell?"

She dashed through the narrow halls. A moment later, she burst through the named room and clasped her knees, heaving for breath. Past her pulse, there sounded the soft clinks of surgical tools.

A lone doctor was closing the shoulder wound of a sleeping woman. Sweat painted his brow and lines folded the corners of his eyes, and stubble said he had not shaved in days. The violent sweeps of the Sky must have kept him restless with patients every day, evident in the pallor of his skin. But his eyes were intent, the motions of his scarred fingers clean and deft.

Seeing that he was not in a critical stage of the operation, Bennie dropped the news.

"Haneul. It's Marion. She left her domain this morning."

His hands paused. It was a brief moment before they returned to their work.

"Is she back?" he said calmly.

"Ten minutes after she left," said Bennie.

The doctor was quiet. He didn't seem affected by the news. Bennie frowned, unsure if he understood.

"The code's been docile for months. If she's moving again, then it has to be him. Haneul, he's—"

"Give me a moment."

It seemed that her urgency was hitting a wall around his operation table. She blew out the steam and moved to a stool in the corner of the room, watching the doctor take his moment. Her feet jilted impatiently.

Minutes later, he finished patching up the woman's shoulder wound and wrapped it at a slow pace. That same delay dressed his steps away from the table, his motions as he removed his gloves and surgical cap. His hair tumbled out in damp black curls, lined with early silver. A loose knot barely held the locks together, which he shook out and retied in silence.

"I thought you'd have more of a reaction," said Bennie.

He shrugged off his operating coat, folding it neatly over a chair.

"How soon can you get me up there?"

She blinked.  _Up there_ meant the upper Sky. Technology at its peak, security as dense as titanium. Sensors and monitors everywhere, with the hunted doctor's identity data logged in, just waiting to be triggered. Nothing less than the lion's den.

"No, I don't think that's..."

"Bennie."

She paused, caught by his eyes. An old light burned below his half-drawn lids.

"How soon?" he said again.

She swallowed. "Tomorrow. But you'll have to go without cover."

The doctor nodded. "Tomorrow, then." Resting his hands on his hips, he faced the window. The artificial light of the Ground bled over his skin, and though the clutter of metal caged his view, his gaze was for the faraway sky. A morning chemical rain was beginning to pelt the glass, nearly obscuring his soft murmur. "You've kept us waiting,  _cheonsa_."   


	9. 9

Sasha took his falcon to work the next day, having convinced Vaughn that he was well enough to drive. For lunch, he met with Harriet Louman at a popular café midway between their workplaces. It was her invitation, the congenial hand of a friend, warm where the marbled walls of CyberSec were cold. He appreciated the break, or tried to.

"You've been quiet. Something on your mind?"

Sasha looked up from his soup at Harriet, who was finished with her sandwich and her recount of the weekend.

"Personalities," he said.

"Personalities?"

The distance of his coworkers. He never did resume his conversation with Vaughn about that matter, mostly because of the strange interference from his initial System domain entry: yesterday afternoon, he had inspected the monitor logs in the viewroom to check what happened, only to find a mismatching security script.

Viral interference. And then either the viral code itself, or someone else, had retroactively erased the evidence. Couple that with the intimate nature of the virus, taking Sasha's form. Now add the confidentiality of the System, stir it with the abrasion of the CyberSec staff. Toss in amnesia and the secrecy of a Regent.

Sasha could draw conclusions. None of them were good.

He ate a bite of his soup, letting the calculated luxury of the Skymade dish warm him. Since his musings before the fish tank on Thursday, he had anticipated that the truth buried with his memories was dangerous. Now he saw an outline, but Vaughn claimed he would not welcome the details. Everything hinged on whether or not he could trust the Regent.

And he did. He had to: the straw bird ordained it. If he could deny even such an intense instinct as the one he associated with that gift, then what in this world could he rely on?

"Personalities," said Sasha, trying to keep his curiosity harmless and idle. "What was mine like before all this?"

Harriet paused.

"Ah, you? The same, more or less. Why? Want to hear me describe it in flattering detail?"

"I don't seem very popular with the staff."

"You're not terribly warm. But you're not terribly terrible either. I think it's a combination of distance and envy." Harriet sipped her tea. "In any case, I wouldn't worry about your personality. You've charmed a Regent with it. Does it get any better than that? Or worse." She chuckled. "As for work, you don't have to stay there, you know. It did sound like a lot of pressure and you hardly had any free time. Maybe consider switching out."

"I can't. Council project."

"After it then."

Sasha dipped a piece of toast into his soup, not responding.

"Think about it, okay? When you're done with this project, it might not be a bad idea to get out of CyberSec. Heck, even get out of the network. It's not like you don't have options, Alex."

"I'm not sure leaving the network  _is_ a professional option. I don't remember many other technical skills."

"Who says you have to do technical work? You don't even need to do work if you don't want to."

Sasha frowned. "My work in the network is important to me."

"Is it? You were always complaining about it."

He opened his mouth to defend himself, only to struggle with words. Why was it important to him?

"I...it's what I'm good at." He glanced at the window where rain was pelting, leaving clear streaks on the pristine glass. The skies had been a stormy gray since yesterday, dark, but somewhat beautiful. "I feel in control when I'm in the network. At home." He shook his head. "I don't think I can leave it so easily."

Harriet was quiet for a moment. Sasha turned to her, catching a strange tone to her gaze before she shrugged it away.

"There's always the private sector." 

This did not sound appealing either, but he nodded anyway. "Maybe."

They wrapped up lunch by 12:50, enough time for Sasha to fly back to the department by the end of his lunch hour. The workers were still abrasive today, but having gained access to the System code earlier in the morning, his mind was absorbed by the network. Perhaps why leaving it permanently felt impossible: even with his amnesia, with the jarring inconsistencies and insidious suspicions, the code of cyberspace could consume him whole.

Five o'clock, Sancotte messaged him the time, as if she knew he would lose track of it. It was another twenty minutes before he wrapped up his work on upgrading new project tools and exited the network. He did not notice the red light blinking on his connector until he was rinsing his hands in the bathroom.

One missed call, recent. After drying his hands, he tapped the side button and checked the call log. 

The caller ID blinked in holographic script, a surreal electric blue:

_Eugene Myeong._

It was his father's name.

His skin turned cold.

Sasha looked around the bathroom. Empty. He eyed the door, pulling the earpiece out of his band and into place. He pressed the redial button. An automated message returned to him:  _Unserviced number._

What?

Swallowing, he flicked to the message log. There was nothing new. His fingers hovered over the reply button. But if a call did go through, a text wouldn't either. Then the source ID—was it a mistake?

He looked up at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, pale with the ghostly call. Shaking his head, Sasha walked out and made his way toward the falcon parking deck. He was halfway down the hall when he stopped on his tracks. Taking a deep breath, he returned to the port room.

It was 5:34 PM. Three architects lingered in the machines, working overtime. Sasha had told Vaughn he would be out by 6 PM at the latest, which gave him another thirty minutes to check where his call had come from. He hooked up his connector to the sideport, then dove into the network.

There was a clear trace on the call, originating from the upper commercial center of Sector 1. But the number itself, checked against the internal system database, had indeed been unserviced since August 13th.

August 13th.

Sasha felt a sudden chill, deepening as he thought on the implications.

Vaughn had said his father had died of cerebral atrophy this year. Sasha had double-checked that information on the first day he had access to the network, in Vaughn's office room. He vaguely remembered feeling this distant loss, but no suspicion. Yet at this very moment, he could not remember what day of the year his father had passed away.

It was impossible that he had forgotten. Negligence, then?

He opened a pathway to the State obituary database. Moments later, he had his father's file.

Not seeing it sooner must have been an error of preservation: aside from the initial check, Sasha had deliberately avoided the passing of his father because the loss of his own identity had been enough to process. He would have asked for the details eventually; eventually he would have gone to visit his parents in the Tower of Stars. Learning their favorite flowers would have been a separate project, unattached to the disjointed circumstances of his amnesia. It was supposed to be a dedicated, graceful affair—not another skin-cutting fragment of this ugly puzzle.

Eugene Myeong, former Assembly Representative for Sector 6, had been marked deceased on the morning of August 10th, 2586. This was the day after Sasha had been admitted to Central Hospital with the injuries from his supposed transport accident. His cause of death: cerebral atrophy.

Cerebral atrophy?

Sasha exhaled an airless breath in the platform space. He swept away the hanging obituary logs. In its place, a navigation panel appeared. He opened the gateway to the Central Hospital data zone.

The network security of every government institution had been developed by CyberSec. As an individual architect, he had no access to their private zones, but knowing the security structure, he pried his way inside within twenty minutes. Once there, he accessed the files for Eugene Myeong. The last recorded visit was on April 1st 2586, a follow-up to a minor brain treatment. Logs flagged him healthy. No atrophy indicators, and the advanced medical science of the Sky mistook nothing.

How had Sasha missed this the first time?

How had he arrived at the conclusion that there was nothing suspicious about his father's death?

And what had happened?

Sasha cradled his head in electric hands, his thoughts running so wildly that he struggled to make sense of anything. This, after all, was not a virus in the network. Not a lie about his wounds. This was his family, the only people he could put his faith in aside from a lover—erased, leaving him to lean on Vaughn Scio alone. He had been afraid of the implications on the day he woke up. Now the memory of Vaughn's voice, claiming cerebral atrophy, sparked a chain of emotions: confusion, fear, betrayal, anger, loss—fear again.

It was 6:06. 

He stared at the Central Hospital data logs. Breathing carefully, he pulled up the feeds for the night of August 9th and searched for file  _801.12A_ —the same video that Tess in Central had shown him a sliver of. The video of his admittance into the hospital that night. The video he should have reviewed on day one, in Vaughn's home office, but for some reason, had not.

Negligence, again?

He felt cold.

Before he pressed play on the video, a message appeared in front of him. It was imported from his connector. An incoming call from Eugene Myeong.

Sasha retreated quickly into his private domain space. But when he connected the call, there was no line.

He traced it one more time, memorizing the source. He wiped his activity data next. It was a quarter past six when he disconnected from the network, and Vaughn would be expecting him home soon. But the call from his father—or whoever was using his ID—came from the nearby commercial center. Close.

Deliberately close?

Dangerous, possibly. Probably.

Sasha debated his next step all the way out to the falcon deck. Once inside his vehicle, he pulled up Vaughn's contact on his connector.

Tell him? Ask him? Trust him?

Sasha closed his eyes. He thought of the beauty of that beach house, the roses and the promises. Those warm arms around him, and soft, familiar lips. The little straw bird with its raw, consuming intensity.

He dialed the call.

" _Sasha?_ "

His heart was pounding so heavily he could barely hear his own thoughts.

"I'm running overtime on some work," he said after a moment. "I'll be home a little late today."

A pause.

" _Of course. I'll keep your dinner warm_."

"Thank you."

" _Don't work too hard, love. I'll see you later."_

The line disconnected. Sasha started his falcon engine and set his route for the commercial district.

 

* * *

 

The trace on the call led Sasha to the central mall of the district, where, at the evening rush hour, the crowd was so dense that he wouldn't be sure how to find what he was looking for even if he knew what it was. Hologram advertising blared across the scene, adding more obtrusion to the throng of colorful faces and fashion. The mall itself was ten stories atop each other, middled by a hallway atrium shadowed by skylanes. His data pointed him to the center of this atrium, where a fountain statue of twin lions poured crystal water into a pool. But arriving there, he saw only idle visitors absorbed in their own worlds.

His caller had avoided connecting the line. This could be any number of reasons—maybe a fear that security code could pick up on tampered communication channels, maybe because the intent was not verbal, maybe because whoever it was wanted to meet face to face. The trace to the source itself had not been ghosted, so Sasha could only conclude that he was led to be here. Perhaps his caller had left him something.

He searched the fountain area as subtly as he could, circling the pool and checking the crevices, but found nothing. A mistake? Not likely. The ID, the two calls, the same source location after the hour had the feel of intent. After four minutes, he scanned the mall again.

The fountain was a very visible area, peered at by State security monitors. If his caller, who seemed cautious enough to hide beneath this much ambiguity, wanted to meet him, this would not be the best place to do it. But here, any eyes could easily sight Sasha. Follow him until he walked into the shadows.

He pulled this jacket tighter around his body, chilled. With his whole past blank and so much quiet hostility in his workplace, this could be a malicious exploit. Coming without telling anyone had been enough of a risk, but to stray out of the monitored areas now...

His fingers hovered over his connector band. After a moment longer, he pulled up Vaughn's contact again. He typed in a quick message and timed its delivery for a half-hour from now. Just in case.

In the corner of the screen, the time read 6:38 PM.

Sasha looked around the mall. A few peripheral halls stemmed from the atrium, narrower and more obscured. He began toward the nearest one, heart pounding. The wisps of passing conversations and footsteps were sharp in his ears, sharp as the lined matrices of the network. The atmosphere felt surreal, the tension even more oddly familiar.

The first time he glanced over his shoulder, the people walking behind him were indistinguishable. When he turned into the narrower hall, the concentration lightened. It was another three long minutes of ambling through the mall before he was able to pick out one consistent figure through his glances.

It was a man, perhaps Asian, wearing a casual and common fashion. His figure was unobtrusive, and the same went for his slicked, neat hair. But his uncovered face was somewhat misplaced in the chiseled beauty of the Sky—jarringly plain, and appearing bloated.

More than this, however, was the way he moved. Nothing objectively unusual, but distinct. Something about it dredged up a feeling Sasha could not describe, except that it churned his gut and made it harder to breathe.

Instinct told him to get back under the monitor eyes. But instinct also told him to find the shadows.

Having come this far, he listened to the latter and walked into a large clothing shop. The stores of the mall kept their own internal security, but these were not as relentless as the eyes of the State. Private code was more relaxed and less integrated than State code, at least in the tightly guarded upper Sky. At the quiet back of this shop, between the rack wall and a tall row of early winter coats, there appeared to be a blindspot. Sasha waited here, counting.

Soon a shadow joined him. Sasha turned to face the man.

He was prepared. He had first words on the tip of his tongue, because he was on strange territory and he wanted to grasp whatever control he could. But when their eyes met, all of this slipped from his mind. He stepped backward.

"Alex," said the man, softly.

This voice.

It ran his blood cold.

Struck frozen, he watched the man reach for his unfamiliar, bloated face. But it wasn't his face. His scarred fingers curled beneath his false jaw. That flesh tore away, revealing what truly accompanied this haunting voice.

A strange sound crawled out of Sasha's throat.

He tried to understand what he was seeing, but it did not register. Only those eyes. Only the feeling beneath his own skin.

The slithering scorch. Veins brittle beneath a merciless stabbing. Ice inside his skull, melting into the folds of his brain. A thousand tons of nameless something over his heart, nuclear heat boiling his lungs. He was shivering suddenly, and his heart was in his head, and his head was cracking open.

The man said something. Sasha didn't hear it.

The man reached forward next.

Sasha was no longer capable of thinking. He was counting, and the numbers screamed. He stumbled backward—but then that skin touched his, a cruel electric shock. He tore away and ran.

"Alex, wait—"

Merchandise knocked from the shelves. His shoulders stung from ramming into sharp corners. People stared. He kept running, knowing nothing except that he needed to get away from this man.

There was a crude curse. Footsteps followed him.

Fighting hysteria, Sasha shoved through the outer hall. The numbers gave him faint logic. Between them, he grasped a thought that the safest place he could be right now was beneath the State monitors of the main atrium. A voice in his head screamed  _no,_ but it was muted beneath his raw terror—as raw as if the person chasing him were not human, but a monstrous concept, deeply embedded, the mere touch of which consumed Sasha.

So he ran for the main atrium. The safety of the State security.

Soon, steps away from the fountain, the throng of the crowd covered him again. The man was nowhere in sight. Sasha clutched at his chest, ignoring the eyes widening at his spectacle. Shaking, he fumbled for his connector earpiece. He dropped it twice. His trembling was so uncontrollable that the hologram shook in his blurred vision, that he could not press the keys to dial Vaughn.

Suddenly, a hand grasped his shoulder. Sasha glimpsed scarred fingers and panicked.

"No, don't touch—don't, don't—"

That man held onto his arms. A memory without dimension flickered, coated with a brutal, helpless fear. The crowd was beginning to peddle back. His voice had dissolved to shredded breaths, and he could not see through the tears.

"—please, someone,  _please_ —"

An alarm shrieked through the atrium hall. The man holding Sasha looked up, his face bare to the State monitors. He looked at Sasha next.

He pulled Sasha close. Sounds Sasha did not recognize ripped from his own throat, pleas he could not distinguish. What was he begging for?

A soft murmur swept by his cheek.

"Alex. Alex, I have to go now.  _Cheonsa,_ listen to me."

He was clawing at skin, but spell-like, that foreign word stilled his vicious fingers. Lips brushed his ears, obscured from the monitors. 

"Retrace your steps. Don't trust anything they tell you. Find me—my name is Haneul." 

Those hands left. The man vanished.

Sasha collapsed to the ground, silent now. The wracking in his bones would not end, and the terror of some ghost agony entrapped him still. But the final syllables echoed in his skull, haunting.

Haneul.

It meant 'sky'.

Sasha gripped his hair and gasped back the sobs. He shut his eyes, terrified, lost, aching, understanding nothing. Far off in the distant, gunshots echoed below the sirens.


	10. 10

It was eighteen minutes and twelve seconds between the parting of Haneul and the arrival of Vaughn Scio. Through the blur of a lingering terror, Sasha allowed the Regent's familiar warmth to sweep him like a torrent. He was silent except for four words:  _nothing_ , and  _I don't remember_ , when pressed about what Haneul had done and said. These were lies, but he was not ready to decide who deserved the truth.

Once home, Vaughn offered the dinner he had promised to keep warm, but Sasha declined to eat. He washed in hot water until his skin was tinged from the heat, and then he stood before the drawer of their bedroom. His fingers traced the roses, the photoframes. The weaves of those small wings. The straw was splintered in places, soft along the edges. Years old. Delicate, hand-made, nothing manufactured by the pristine machines of the Sky.

It was not long before the Regent came into the room with a glass of medicated drink in his hands. Sasha withdrew to the bed then, taking the offered glass. 

"This will help you relax," said Vaughn.

He didn't want to relax. Wordless, he held the glass. Vaughn sat beside him, the lamplight hueing the soft dusting of hair upon his arm, warm gold. It was so comfortable and familiar in his bed, by his side, that Sasha could only wish he had dreamed a nightmare. That somehow, his gentle lover could remain untouched by the horrid evening. Indeed, in the pits of his terror, it was no one but Vaughn Scio that Sasha had longed to see.

But the lies. He could not let them go.

"I was ready to give up the truth for you," said Sasha.

Vaughn glanced at him. In this moment, at least he had the tact to tread delicately. Despite the tension of his shoulders and the unease in his eyes, he waited patiently for Sasha to continue.

Sasha placed the glass on the table. The words upon his lips were the final gesture of his trust in Vaughn Scio. He had deliberated them since he had regained the coherence to think. And it was not easy to be sure, but he staked himself upon the undeniable warmth this man brought. One more time. One last time.

"The man I met," said Sasha, "I knew him in the past. True?"

Vaughn nodded. "Yes."

"I loved him in the past. Or had feelings approximating it. True?"

Vaughn stilled. Nothing.

Sasha looked at him. "You don't have to humor me, Vaughn. You've lied to me about plenty enough. But I hope that you were at least honest when you claimed to be protecting me. I didn't feel protected tonight. I felt terrified. So please. I'd like you to answer my questions."

Vaughn shut his eyes. He reached for Sasha's hand. When Sasha did not withdraw, he brought this hand to his lips and pressed it to his brow. With his body hunched and his eyes averted, he answered.

"It was before. Before us."

Sasha paused.

"And the bird you gave me."

A quiet, strange noise tore from the Regent's throat. His hands dug into Sasha's. "Oh, god," he whispered.

Sasha pulled his hand away. Vaughn didn't seem like he had the strength to resist. He brushed the man's face next, turning it gently so that Vaughn could see his eyes. The pain in his silver flickered, confused.

"I want to know what happened," said Sasha. "I want to know what he did to me, and why he did it. I want to know what you have done. Please, Vaughn. I have no one else to ask. Give me my life back." 

Their eyes held for a long, uncertain moment.

At last, Vaughn covered the hand at his face. He closed his eyes, turning his lips, kissing Sasha's palm. Taking a deep breath, he spoke.

"I love you. I have always loved you. Nothing but."

Sasha nodded faintly.

Vaughn breathed again, calmer now.

"You know you were on the Ground in '76," he said.

"It was when my mother died," said Sasha.

"Yes," said Vaughn. "The Grounders were raiding the lower hospital for medical supplies that night. They killed her when she discovered them. But they recognized you from the news. Your university work with CyberSec. So they took you, hoping to use whatever knowledge you had for their rebel group." He paused, looking away. "Haneul was one of them. He's the leader of that group now. But back then, he saved you from them. That was when you...you began to have feelings for him. He got you back up to the Sky, but your relationship continued. For years." Vaughn swallowed. "You wrote code for them. Bypassed our security systems for them. If you had gotten caught then, we would have executed you. But you outsmarted all of us, and the more barriers you broke, the more aggressive the Grounder rebels became. And Haneul began to want more from you."

Sasha strung together the pieces. The viral code in the network.

"He wanted me to take down the System?"

Vaughn nodded. "The System infrastructure and functions are top secret. So you joined CyberSec, and you learned what it did. That's also when we met." A faint smile curled his tired lips, gentle despite the burden of his words. "I knew I couldn't have you. I could see it in your eyes. But we became close regardless, and..." He sighed. "This is where I'm not as certain of the details. You must have changed your mind. I think you realized what the Ground was asking of you was just a momentary relief—that if you went through with it, it could destroy our entire State. That there were better ways, and those ways began with patience. But Haneul was not patient. He kept pushing you until you slipped. I barely caught you in time to protect you from the Council."

"You...lied to the Council for me?"

"Is it surprising?" said Vaughn. "It's not like I've always been a great fan of their methods."

"They would have killed you too."

Vaughn shook his head. "It didn't matter. But we were honest with each other afterward. That was when, I think, things began to change between us. I am not sure if you ever stopped loving—him, to be honest. Even if he was just using you. But you knew what was best for the eight hundred million lives of the State, and so you drifted further from the Ground. They didn't like that. Things were quiet for a while, but you knew all their secrets as well as you knew ours. So naturally, they came after you."

"June 16th," said Sasha.

Vaughn nodded. Paused.

After a moment, he lifted his wrist and pressed the screen projection of his connector. He tapped through the screen for several moments, at last offering a view of a still video. Sasha leaned closer, recognizing the image. It was a room in Central Hospital—the same file that Tess had shown him during his Wednesday visit last week. The date and time in the corner matched.

"This is August 9th," said Vaughn. "The night we took you back."

He pressed the play button.

The video was soundless. On the screen, a body was wheeled into the room with hurry, covered in a sheet. A group of doctors followed, leaving Vaughn and a woman just outside the viewing glass. Sasha had seen this in Tess's feed, but he hadn't seen the operators pull off the sheet.

The state of his body beneath was horrific, punctured and blood drenched. As they tore off his clothes, they revealed haphazard lacerations over the right side of his body and a hole in his gut. The shadows obscured the details, but Sasha thought he could see the tangled misplacement of organs in that wound. It seemed that the only thing which kept him alive was the lifeline attached to his cart.

Feeling nauseous, Sasha spoke. "What happened?"

Vaughn closed the video.

"We found you because of tracking data you had left for us. We were fools for how long it took us to realize it. But the Regents who came with me—they were more interested in wiping the Grounders than keeping you alive. This was the result." He paused, his voice softening. "I told you your father died of cerebral atrophy, but it was only because I wanted to hide this truth from you. He came with us that night. I had promised him I would keep you safe, and I broke that promise. It seemed like the least I could do. But I couldn't protect him."

Sasha's heart constricted. Yet at the same time, his lungs released. This felt like a consistent truth, raw because Vaughn had offered it freely. But there was more, and Vaughn continued. 

The Regent now flicked through a log list and pulled up a new file. After inputting the time into the display function, the screen showed an almost empty room. Sasha alone laid on the bed, the monitors displaying stable signals. A pair of legs could be seen at the upper end of the viewing glass, a man sitting down on a bench. He was holding a cup between his hands.

"This is the next night. August 10th."

Vaughn pressed play.

Nothing changed for a few seconds. Then the light on the monitor flickered to a new pattern. On the hospital bed, Sasha shifted his head and winced. A moment later, the man outside dropped the cup and rushed into the room. It was Vaughn.

Sasha watched himself wake. He watched his eyes flicker to the Regent and stay here, his deeply creased lips parting in a tortured word, his head shaking weakly.

 _Vaughn_ , he said.

The Regent dropped to his side and took his hand. Said something obscured by his knuckle. Sasha responded, words that couldn't be deciphered—kept speaking, despite the evident pain that rawed Sasha's throat even now. Tears began leaking from his bloodshot eyes. Vaughn closed his own eyes and kissed his hand. Then he rose and tapped at the chemical machine's control panel, and within moments, Sasha was unconscious again.

Vaughn, beside Sasha, closed the video file and lowered his wrist.

"What did I say?" said Sasha, unsteady.

Vaughn gazed down at Sasha's hand, the same place he had so gently kissed in the video.

"You asked me to kill you."

Sasha was quiet for a moment.

"Why didn't they?" said Sasha.

"The Grounders? You had information they wanted. More than information—code. Progress on the System Architecture projects."

"The Council," said Sasha. "Surely they knew the truth by then."

Vaughn paused.

"They knew some of it. It reached the CyberSec staff as well. But not everything—they believe you had been coerced in the past, or else the Ground would not have been so—brutal with you." Vaughn swallowed. "I convinced them that you would be alright with me. But I couldn't get your request out of my head. So I asked the Council to allow me to erase your memories of what had happened. Just so I could see you smile again, Sasha. Just so you wouldn't beg me to end your life. And they granted me this request.

"It was just supposed to be the two months you spent on the Ground, but the procedure didn't go as planned. It seemed like erasing those two months ended up erasing far more. I thought you'd lost a year at most—not this. Not everything.

"I had wanted to keep it from you for as long as I could. I didn't tell you about your past with the Ground because it was safer for you. For both of us. I didn't tell you about the rest because—I hoped that you would never have to know about what I was protecting you from. The things that man did to you..."

He looked away.

"You remember it still, sometimes. Our science...it's not advanced enough to erase physiological imprints."

The shadows in bed. That raw, horrible fear of being stripped and held. The same consuming terror he had felt upon seeing Haneul's face.  _I don't know if you ever stopped loving him_ —perhaps it was true. But a man who tortured and raped him—how could he ever forgive that?

By contrast, Vaughn had apparently risked his life to keep Sasha alive.

"Why did you have to lie about the bird?" said Sasha.

Vaughn looked down, shaking his head. "Because I wanted you to love me. Because I wanted you to be happy. I thought if I could give you what you wanted from him—what you kept going back to him for—I could keep you safe with me. I could...I could make you happy." 

The Regent sighed then, facing away.

"I know it was wrong. Actually, I'm not sure if I did it more for you or for myself. I don't expect you to forgive me, Sasha. I just want to...I..." He shook his head, standing. Quiet, "You can have the bed tonight."

Sasha rose, catching his wrist.

"No."

Vaughn tried to smile. "If you have more questions, I can answer them later. I think, right now, I need a break..."

"That isn't it."

Vaughn halted, lifting his eyes. When Sasha gazed at Vaughn, he found the unwavering impression of security. That beautiful silver, and the soft scent of rose mint and western tea. The evidence of the hospital videotape, undeniable love in the hours he lingered by Sasha's hospital bed. The expression on Sasha's own drugged, vulnerable face, turning toward the Regent as if the man was his final lifeline. Speaking his name with his first conscious breath.

"You don't need to lie to me to make me happy. Or to protect me." Sasha touched his cheek. "If what you say is true, then this is enough. I do forgive you. So promise me. No more lies."

Vaughn closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. He nodded.

Sasha kissed him.

It was true—this soft, familiar warmth, so long as it came honestly, was enough. The fantasy of an intense passion was better left alone with its cruel shadows. Love could never be so cruel. But love trusted, gently.

"Sasha," murmured Vaughn.

"Go on," said Sasha. "I'll be here."

Vaughn nodded. After he left, Sasha drank the cooled mixture on the nightstand. As he laid alone in bed, a terrible voice echoed in his skull, warning him— _do not trust anything they tell you_. But, he replied, what he distinctly, instinctively felt toward the two men had nothing to do with words.

He closed his eyes. In moments, he was lured into a medicated sleep. 

 

* * *

 

Out on the open patio, Vaughn watched the empty sky and breathed. His heart ached and his skull burned, slick with grime and sick with love. In the end, he did not return to the room until after Sasha had already fallen asleep, and then, the messages on his connector could wait no longer.

He drove to the Imperial, dialing Willian Demari in the vehicle.

" _Regent—_ "

"Report."

A pause.

" _Nothing pleasant, I'm afraid. We lost him_."

"I heard. I want the report on Alex. Any System activity?"

" _None,_ " said Demari. " _He seems stable now, so it's unlikely there will be any more, if we handle him carefully._ "

"Why?"

" _Pardon_?"

Vaughn loosened his jaw with effort.

"Why was there no interference? How did the System let him get away with the meeting? Isn't the it designed to prevent this kind of activity? Explain it, Director."

" _The Astrid code is scripted to interfere only when the target has subversive thoughts or suspects its memory function. So he must not have had either, Regent. I would consider it a win, if anything, that he wasn't sneaking behind our backs with any dangerous intentions._ "

"It was dangerous, and you know it."

" _Nothing serious would have happened. The System would have prevented that, at least. How is he now?_ "

Asleep. Safe. Trusting.

Vaughn closed his eyes briefly. Demari was right—nothing serious had happened. But the mere possibility of it had run his bones cold, and he could still feel the aftershock of the tremors.

"Fine. I'm keeping him home tomorrow. Stay on call—we'll need you for the Council meeting."

" _Of course, Regent. I'll see you in a few minutes._ "

He cut the line.

Moments later, he arrived at the high deck of the Imperial Tower. It was in the long corridor where he ran into the younger Marcus Kalengar, pacing on a call. His brow was tightly drawn and his eyes were dark. Threat leaked from his sharp voice.

"Well, sweep it again," he was saying. "He came to the damned upper, Kuzol! There is no way his trail is clean."

There was a pause while Vaughn closed the distance. Kalengar spotted him and hissed a final line into his conn.

"I don't care! Find something, or find a new job."

He ripped his earpiece out a moment later, the cord tugging it back into place against his wrist. He glared at Vaughn next.

"Didn't I tell you, Scio?"

"Tell me what?"

"Your little architect. He'd pull that damned sewer rat out of his hole. We should have played this card monthsago."

Vaughn flexed his jaw before he responded. "Myeong isn't bait. We need him."

"For what? The code?" Kalengar tailed Vaughn, who had walked past him along the corridor. "How far do you think he'll lead us before he's more trouble than he's worth? It's been a week, Scio—one week. And look at what's happened so far. We can't control him. There's no point if the System wipes him again. It'd be a better use of resources to go after the doctor instead. You know he'd bite if we—"

Vaughn turned sharply. Kalengar barely halted in time, their noses almost brushing.

"If we did what?" he hissed softly. "Careful what you suggest, lest I cut out your tongue."

The younger Regent swallowed. "You wouldn't dare."

Vaughn smiled, cold. "Wouldn't I? We're at the peak of the Sky. What is there to stop us but each other?" He stepped back. "You're blinded by revenge, Marcus. I'd watch my step if I were you."

"You think your eyes are any better? You can't tell your desk from your bed."

"On the contrary, I'm very well aware of the distinction."

Kalengar chuckled. "Then you know. It's his life or yours. You can fuck him into playing doll all you want, but that's what it'll come down to in the end."

Vaughn shoved the man against the wall. His skull met marble, eliciting a sharp cry. Kalengar slumped as Vaughn stepped back, still conscious, but cradling his head in disoriented agony. 

"Don't underestimate me, Regent. It'll be the death of you."

Smoothing the folds of his suit, he continued down the corridor toward the council room. 

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Sasha woke to the comfortable warmth of a radiating heat. Vaughn laid close by his side, still asleep, but not touching. His hair looked soft in the light of sunrise. When Sasha threaded his fingers gently through, the man stirred without waking.

The details of the night came back to him with sharp clarity. Idle, he ran through the habitual task of picking the pieces apart. The facts Sasha held lined up with Vaughn's account: the silica and potash in his August 9th wounds, as noted in the medical files, substances belonging to the Ground; the viral interference in the System domain, perhaps the product of rebel code written for or implanted by the Ground; the awful, terrified reaction in the mall; the distance of CyberSec; the death of his father; the little straw bird. Everything fit, as flawless as truth. The only strange pieces were Haneul himself, coming up so dangerously high, and his indecipherable message:

_Retrace your steps._

Unsure of what this meant or what it would yield, Sasha filed it quietly away. He had felt drawn to these words upon hearing this name—Haneul, the distinct echo of his little straw bird—but in light of Vaughn's story, he was inclined to doubt. A man who not only tortured and raped him, but for years, used his love, and tried to use it still. Could it be false? There was a possibility. But Sasha had no better explanation for the physiological proof.

He did wonder how he had come to love such a man so intensely. 

He hoped, too, that he might one day come to feel the same for the man before him. Though he was not completely bought, he would like to believe.

Soon, Vaughn woke. A languor lulled his motions, vulnerable as he lifted a hand to rub his eyes. His chest expanded in a soundless yawn. The warmth of it brushed Sasha's skin.

Sasha smiled faintly. "Good morning."

Vaughn looked up so quickly that it startled him. Sasha's smile was beginning to slip when Vaughn reached up and touched his lips. That was when Sasha realized how foreign the curve of his mouth felt.

Vaughn mirrored it, his eyes softening to this extraordinary peace.

"Good morning, love."

"When did you sleep?" said Sasha.

"Late," said Vaughn. "The Council called a meeting last night, about what happened. I did call in for you, by the way. I thought we could stay home today."

Sasha nodded, happy to escape the rigid watch of CyberSec. "Thank you. I'd like that." He paused. "Did they catch him, by the way?"

Vaughn sighed. "No. He has sharp blades." Blades—the common term for cyber criminals, evoking the image of severed network code. "But I wouldn't worry, love. We've strengthened the security and it's unlikely he'll be making another trip."

Sasha nodded. Though he was oddly relieved to hear that the man had escaped, he had no wish to see him any time soon.

Vaughn leaned forward, pausing briefly. When Sasha did not withdraw, Vaughn kissed his brow. "I'll go make breakfast, then."

So he did. It was a comfortable morning, normalcy restored.

Noon time, Sasha found himself idle, listening to the undercurrent of the Regent's phone conversations from his office while attempting to read a dense biography on Astrid Nnamani. Her life itself was interesting, but this book in particular spent pages delineating the most unnecessary details of her initial development work, paced for a general audience. He felt no attachment to the content, and, bored, soon pushed it aside to fetch a glass of water.

On his way out of the kitchen, the notestand caught his eye. He vaguely recalled holding the red pen a few times, never using it. For some reason, the ringed notepad that used to inhabit the stand had been replaced with a binded notepad, pages firmly attached to the book.

Back in the living room couch, Sasha pulled up his connector. While on the subject of notes, he had newly thought to detail his read with supplemental annotations. If nothing else, the process might help him focus; the book was a matter of his decryption work, so he would need to trek though it eventually. With Vaughn occupied and spare time on his hands, there seemed to be no better time to do it.

He projected the book document upon his screen, keyboard poised below. He restarted the current chapter from the beginning, having lost some details in his first read. He had made it through two paragraphs when a thought paused him.

_Retrace your steps._

Ambiguous as this suggestion was, there was a way for Sasha to retrace his steps—all the steps he remembered, at least. He hesitated.

In the office room, Vaughn's voice took a sharp pitch. Before Sasha could catch the words, the door closed.

He frowned.

_Retrace your steps._

It couldn't hurt. At best, it might reinforce the trust he wanted to afford the Regent.

He closed the biography file. Meaning to make an outline of his investigation from day one, he navigated his connector control panel to create an offline word file. But once he reached the base folder, he stilled.

A document already existed.

It was titled  _09/06/86_. Last Wednesday.

Last Wednesday?

That was the day he blacked out. He remembered nothing of this document.

Unsettled, he tapped the file open.

Scripted across the top:

PERSONAL INVESTIGATION RECORDS – 9/4 TO PRESENT

It seemed that that  _retrace your steps_ was a caution he had already taken.

Below this heading, the first two pages were a detailed log of his investigation beginning on September 4th, with his access to the network in Vaughn's office, and ending with his visit to Central Hospital on September 6th. He had clearly written the log, noting the data he had discovered, its source, and flags for further investigation. He had consolidated these flags on the third page, which read as such:

_Missing data:_

_-      Central Hospital video files and release records_

_-      Vehicle details on 08/09_

_-      Where was I from 6/16 – 8/9?_

_-      Kindle Facilities – what is this??_

_-      June 16th Code Blue – confirmed via media; can't remember detail on upper clearance security records_

_-      Father's date of death and medical records_

-       _Anna's work history w/ Vaughn. Does she remember you?_

_Should have confirmed these days ago. What is going on??_

Chilling.

But not as much as the next page.

Here, Sasha's fingers froze over the holograph.

** DO NOT CLOSE THIS FILE **

_9/6 12:52 PM. At 42E S19, midground, two blocks west of VSM factory. Woman in the grocery shop says I came here a half hour ago, asked her the same questions. Mentioned a doctor—State was after him on 6/16. No accident with the rails – there's residue by the warehouses, too far from the station. Says it was a sting op. He's still on the Ground – woman says to look in S11D9._

_9/6 1:12 At mg clothing shop. Vague on what I'm doing here. Planning trip to Ground? Need a change of clothes - else will stand out_

_9/6 1:44 At rail station again. Lost track of notes. Setting conn alarm._

_9/6 2:16 s11 Ground elevators, need to_

_9/6 2:21 Need to go back. Keep getting memory blurs—no blanks, some kind of filler. This has to be network code._

_Stay calm. Talk to Anna._

Stay calm.

He reread the page, once, twice, three times until the office door rustled. Then he shut the file and pulled up the biography again. He stared at the words, heart racing, scared that any moment, he'd be swept with a blurred calm, forgetting what he had just discovered. Memory interference—it explained everything. The holes in his initial investigation, the vague network recollections, the blank from Wednesday. How many times had he realized this? How many times had he reached this same exact conclusion, with this same intense, frightened revulsion—and lost its details?

_Do not close this file._

He had to. The worse alternative was that the Regent would see this file and delete it.

The moments passed.

Somehow, he didn't forget.

"Sasha?"

Sasha looked up. His heart constricted, brutally grasped by the gentle sound of his name. By the look of those eyes, warm as they ever were. He had been willing to trust this man, and he felt like a played fool for it now. A doll, dressed pretty, limbless.

"What is it?" said Sasha.

Vaughn sat down beside him. "I know you're still recovering from yesterday, but it might help to get some fresh air. Would you like to go out for dinner tonight? Perhaps see a play?"

Sasha nodded. "That sounds nice."

The Regent smiled, oblivious to the quiet strain of his lover's voice. "Good." His hand reached for Sasha's chin, tilting intimately as he leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss. Sasha willed himself not to move while bile gathered in his throat, while that breath swept his skin. "It's a date, then."

Later, when Vaughn vanished once more into his office, Sasha grabbed the pen on the kitchen counter. He had forgotten nothing yet, but there was no guarantee he would retain this vital information throughout the hours. He hovered the pen above his faintly scarred palm.

What could he write? That wouldn't give him away, yet remind him?

_Find me. My name—_

Fingers trembling, he pressed the red ink into his skin. The soft lines of a foreign script bled in.

하늘 _._

 


	11. 11

Days passed in which Sasha held back the nausea in his head, feigning a lax comfort at home and a professional detachment at work. Slowly the name inside his palm faded, and as it vanished he realized that his memories were no longer in jeopardy. No longer tethered by this bird or that promise, he laid out the facts piece by piece and made his most dangerous conjectures.

It was Saturday when the opportunity came. Sasha hated to wait, to lie in bed each night with a kiss and pretend it was sweet, but too much was at risk. On Saturday, Vaughn left in the morning to attend to regular business, having missed several days to stay home with Sasha in the past two weeks. Sasha was left alone in the apartment. He flew down to 42 Eastern on his falcon.     

Midground in Sector 19 was made of broad bridges that hung over the caged hell below, and the bridges held up a gray clutter of infrastructure, the intestines of an elaborate machine without care for aesthetics. Floor 0 of the towers began here, each supported by thick nanotube pillars that ran down to the Ground in the image of a million pins. Above, there were only little speckles of sky through the thick weave of lanes and architecture.

Still, people made lives here. It was mostly Grounders who had worked their way up from the grime below, some unfortunate citizens of the Skyworld who'd lost their prosperity and status, rare few who chose to inhabit these parts for occupation. Residences were scattered in pockets, but it was largely a commercial district of miscellaneous shops and locked warehouses.

Before Sasha ventured into 42 Eastern, he dropped his falcon off at a vehicle exchange store, leaving his connector inside in case it was traced. In exchange for 184 EC, the store merchant gave him a storage space and a slim rider. Unlike the falcons, these bikes couldn't be flown, but they were efficient for quick lane travel. Based on the timestamps of his notes from Wednesday, Sasha must have taken a rider for his midground travels—he remembered no such thing, but the merchant confirmed his suspicions with a familiar greeting.

At a little past ten, he reached the rim of 42 Eastern. It was an industrial district of the sector. Some transport vehicles shadowed over the bridges and smoke leaked from the fuel tunnels that led to the chemical filters. A few faces passed him by, not many at the morning hour. Most of these wore blue light dots upon the nape of their neck, imperfection in their unadulterated faces. Though tempted to question them about the events of June 16th, he forced himself to focus on his objective. He located the VSM factory of his notes and walked two blocks westward.

A grocery store came into view—a worn place with a smoke-dusted sign. A feeble bell rang when he opened the door. There were six aisles of goods in a small area, the pungent smell of spice and vegetation. An orange had been dropped on the floor. No customers, but to the far right, a woman with a hooked nose sat behind a counter. She saw him and stopped filing her nails.

Sasha went to her. The woman dropped her nail file and leaned over the counter with a smile.

"Well, well. Back again, baby vulture?"

"Baby vulture?" he said, arriving at the counter.

The woman lifted an eyebrow. She pointed a finger to her head. "You're really sore up there, aren't you? Told you last time—it's what we call them wannabee gods flying around in the Sky." She reached under the cabinet then, pulling something out. It hit the plastic countertop with a hard clack. "You came for this, yeah?"

He reached for the object. It was a black rectangle, small enough to be hidden by a palm. An outdated communication device.

A burner.

"Who left this?" said Sasha. "When?"

"Don't know her name. Couple days ago? Picked you out on the surveillance footage and told me to give it to you next you came."

He glanced around the store. In the corner behind the counter, there was an old camera eye.

"Do you still have the footage from two Wednesdays ago?"

"I do."

"May I see it?"

She smiled wryly and tapped a painted nail against the cheap conn band on her wrist. She was asking for payment, though he had no connector with him to transfer the credits. 

Sasha shrugged off his jacket and passed it over. "Will this do? It's wool. Authentic."

"Oh?" She inspected the fabric, then hummed. "Good enough. Over here, little vulture."

He walked behind the counter to face her hologram monitor screen. A few moments later, he watched himself enter the grocery store twice on that first Wednesday, then tap into his connector with shaking fingers the second time. For a while Sasha had entertained the possibility that Haneul had somehow implanted the frightening file in his connector, but seeing the video evidence of its creation at his own hands, he swallowed.

"May I use your toilet?" he asked the woman.

She nodded her head toward a hall at the back of the grocery store. "Second door."

He went, soon locking himself inside a small, yellow-walled bathroom. It was here that he pulled out the small device he had pocketed earlier, his fingers cooling against its slick electric contours.

There was no screen—only two collections of little round openings, one at the top and one at the bottom for audio delivery and reception, and four buttons: volume up, volume down, call, and end. He pressed the call button and held the device up to his ear.

A faint beeping sounded. Static buzzed.

Then a voice:

" _You came._ "

Though the distinction of the sound was electrically distorted, Sasha still gripped the fabric of his shirt and shivered.

"Haneul."

There was a chuckle on the line, soft. Sasha closed his eyes.

" _Maja, cheonsa. And I thought I'd made it so you wouldn't recognize my voice._ " A pause. " _Are you well?_ "

He shook his head, though nobody could see. He pressed his fingers to his brow and backed up to the wall, his weight falling against the concrete.  _Are you well_ —like a gesture of concern. But he had received so many of those from Vaughn Scio, and the Regent had played him. Now this man—this man, unlike the first, came with the awful, physiological imprint of brutal abuse.

"You told me to find you. Is this what you meant?"

" _I'm afraid we'll have to settle for it. It doesn't look like meeting face to face is a good idea right now."_

No—Sasha likely would not be able to hold a conversation.

"Then what do you have to tell me?"

" _Let's start with what you want to know._ "

He paused.

"The Tag," said Sasha. "Can you remove it?"

" _Not without your help,_ " said Haneul. " _You've figured it out?_ "

"There's been memory interference. Deliberate wipes and fillers." Only the network had the capacity to hold this kind of code. Yet his memory adjustments had appeared to stop, and the only significant anomaly of his time in the network was a virus that appeared in the System domain. "I've been told that the System uses its Tags to regulate emotional responses, but that's not true, is it? It regulates memory."

A smile carried through the distortion.

" _Who's going to revolt if they can't remember to pick up the torch? Yes, you're right. The System deletes memory when it detects potential subversion or anything that might threaten it. It uses the brain's natural wiring to fill the blanks with new memories."_

A truth more horrific than the lie CyberSec fed to him. Homeostatic regulation only tamed the cattle, but left them free to roam and calmly rebel. But memory regulation—this severed their horns and crippled their legs. A hundred years of inhumane peace? It was but the blink of an eye in a world run by the Astrid Tree. 

"When I entered the System domain the first time," he said cautiously, "there was viral interference. I believe it's what is letting me keep my memory intact right now. But I don't know—I think I'm—" his breath caught briefly "—am I still Tagged?"

" _You are. Your virus—it put a pause to the System activity on your Tag. But the way the code works is complicated, to say the least. The Tag doesn't just regulate memory—it does all the other mundane things they tell the public it does. Tracks whereabouts, carries an instantaneous execution function, all that. Scio's probably got an eye on your trace daily, so if your Tag were to be completely cut, your cover would be blown. The virus was scripted to act with that in mind. But so long as it's not a complete cut, it means you're not free._ "

"And free—does it mean I get my memories back?"

" _Likely, yes._ "

He paused.

"How can you make that happen?"

" _I have people who can black your Tag for good. But we need you to get us into the System domain. Soon as that's done, you get out, meet us. We'll send you the spot and bring you down here, somewhere safe from the Sky. Listen, Alex—I know you can't trust me right now. God knows Scio's spun you enough lies, and I'm not going to fight him with more stories. I know—"_ Haneul stopped. His voice had begun to take a different tone, less his opening ease. He seemed to rein it back. " _I remember what it was like for you in the mall. But as long as you have that Tag on you, you're not safe. Let us get it off. Then you can decide who you want to trust._ "

The promise of his memories lured him. That unshielded claim of truth through action tempted him. But Haneul was right: Sasha could not trust a man who filled him with instinctive terror. He defaulted to his skeptical logic.

There existed four motivations for Haneul to get to his Tag: to, as he claimed, free Sasha; to kill him; to access the System domain; and to insert his own code into Sasha's spinal implant. If Haneul wanted to kill him, he could have easily done so in the upper Sky. If he wanted access to the System domain, so be it—Sasha frankly didn't mind the collapse of something so horrific. If he wanted to control Sasha's spinal implant, Sasha need only monitor the work of his blades. If they needed  _him_ to get into the domain, then it was unlikely any network trick they tried could escape his eyes.

"I'll need a week," he said.  

" _That's fine. The comm you have—it's good for three calls. We'll make the preparations on our end. You let us know when you're ready._ "

"Is that all?"

There was pause.

" _Mianhaeyo, cheonsa_ ," he said softly. In the electric distortion, the words wisped around themselves. " _I'm sorry it took me so long_."

An ache swallowed his heart like someone had crushed his straw bird in their palm. Faithless in his emotions, he ignored it. 

"I will call you when I'm ready," he said.

" _Be careful, Alex_."

He pressed the  _end_ button. Tucking the burner into his pocket, he exited the restroom.

Outside, the woman had resumed filing her nails in a still-empty shop. She arched an eyebrow at him.

"Everything all right there?"

"Fine, thank you." He paused on his way out. "Do you know a man named Haneul?"

"The doc? What, you forgot that again too?"

Sasha frowned. His notes had mentioned a doctor, a sting operation in 42 Eastern. "Is that what he is? A doctor?"

The woman shrugged. "Guess so. Never met him myself—try to stay outta that mess, you know? But that's what they say."

"What else do they say?"

"That he's their best bet out of that hellhole. Which doesn't make any sense to me, because if he's a doctor, he's just keeping them around for longer, right? There's no way out unless you crawl like me. Sky's got everything, Ground's got nothing. You ever find him, by the way?"

Sasha shook his head.

"Shame. Been wanting to know what he looks like." She lowered her voice, smile quirking. "Hear he charmed himself a guardian angel, you know. Sky can't touch him, no matter what they do. S'why the Ground's so obsessed with him. You outplay the Sky, you're a right god." She shrugged again. Behind her, the glass of the cabinet refracted a blue light at the nape of her neck. "Well, it's all just a good story for me. You want to stay alive here, you play the role you get handed."

Sasha nodded. "It was nice to meet you."

"Sure, little vulture. You take care now." 

 

* * *

 

Back at the vehicle exchange shop, Sasha picked up his falcon and flew toward the hovering midground rails. In his Wednesday notes, he had only a time lapse of five minutes between  _s11 Ground elevators_ and  _need to go back_ , which meant he likely hadn't explored much of the Ground. He was not in a position to indulge his curiosity now, but so close, he wanted at least to see this hazed place of his forgotten memories.

It began to rain when he passed the great divide. Here the tone of the light changed, as if the fluorescence warred with the shadows. Through the clutter, he soon landed upon the lonely deck of a broad, high bridge. He exited the vehicle to hover by the edge of this deck, not registering the shivers of his jacketless drench.

Surreal. 

He stood above a sprawling landscape heaved from the city's gut. Someone had thrown out the scraps of a thousand broken machines and a child had arranged the pieces into indefinable shapes, but the shapes had collapsed into piles, and the piles leaned against the pillars that held up the weight of the Skyworld. It looked like metal ruins, an industrial junkyard, abandoned sewers of the city he knew—except that it was not. It was alive.

A million little lights scattered through the pieces, red-hued smog where there could be factories, motion rippling through the thin weave streets of the ground, the Ground. One neon sign visible from where he stood, reading  _The Cage_ , and a hundred others with indecipherable or foreign letters—diversity thrown together to rot together. The sound of travel and thick commerce, desperate life where there should be none. Daytime where it should be black from the clutter of metal.

Illusory day. The white mimic of sunlight was coming from lights beneath the bridges of midground. It was dim, but the pollution in the air refracted the brightness enough that it still reached bottom.

Still reached—

The rain.

Sasha realized with a jolt that he wasn't standing under the rain, new from the sky. He didn't know what mixture of liquid was pouring down over him. Quickly, he returned to the cover of his falcon. In the passenger's seat, his connector was vibrating—incoming call from  _V._

He cranked up the heat and connected the line.

"Vaughn?"

There was a breath of relief. " _God, I thought—are you alright?"_

"I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

" _I...it's..."_

"You know where I am right now."

A pause.

" _There's a trigger in your conn when you pass below midground. I had it installed as a precaution in case of the worst. I didn't want to worry you._ "

It was a prettily concerned explanation. 

"I'm just here to take a look," said Sasha. "I'm heading back now."

" _You're in your falcon?_ "

"Yes."

The Tag would have prevented him from accessing the elevators, the only other means of transport between the Sky and the Ground. 

" _Alright. I'm sorry if this feels intrusive, love. I just want you to be safe."_

"It's fine," he said. He could not help the faint chill in his voice, spurred by the soft  _love_. "I'll see you later."

A pause.

" _I'll see you at home, Sasha._ "

Sasha ended the call.

Through the pristine windows of his falcon, he gazed over the sprawling Ground one more time. Six hundred million lives—and Vaughn Scio had seen their cage. He had been born of it. As if the hideous mess was his own gut, Sasha pressed his hand to his stomach. Rich cotton folded beneath his palm, wet from the chemical rain. Shivering once more, he switched the falcon into flight mode and returned to the opulent Sky.

 

* * *

 

Sasha spent the remainder of the day outlining his plan for the next week. At six, Vaughn arrived home, greeting him with the habitual smile and gentle kiss. It was not until they were seated at the polished dinner table, fresh magnolias between them, that Vaughn brought up the matter of his trip.

"Why didyou go to the Ground?"

"I wanted to see it," said Sasha. "You said it was an important part of my life."

The silverware paused above the Regent's plate. "It was." He looked at Sasha. "It's not anymore. You wanted out, Sasha. And you paid the price to get out. Don't—don't force yourself into the past again, please. I don't want to see you hurt."

Sasha ate a spoonful of softened carrots, silent for a moment.

"I won't go again," he said.

"Good," said Vaughn. He paused. "Are you upset?"

Sasha shook his head. Lie? It'd be too transparent.

"It looked like a disposal pit down there," he said quietly. "The State makes people live down there? Makes them tame about it? We're systematically dehumanizing the majority of our population." He nodded at the food in his plate. "Even if it's for survival, how do you enjoy this in good conscience?"

There was a heavy pause. Vaughn shook his head, expression torn.

"I don't," he said eventually. He sighed and set down his utensils. "As a species, we developed the peak of our ethical code during a time when we could almost follow it. And we've kept that code, but the circumstances now don't afford us the option of..."

"I've heard it before. Don't afford us? You feed me organic carrots and dress me in authentic wool. Can you afford to direct the State toward a more equitable alternative, Regent? Because if you can't tell me that you've been trying—Vaughn, I don't know how I'm supposed to believe that I  _chose_ to let things be after knowing their lives for years."

It was too much. He had not meant to speak so earnestly—part of the condemnation in his voice derived from the revolting knowledge that the System was not merely an emotional regulator. He had intended to play into Vaughn's logic, accept it quietly as he had in the past, but something about this familiar room, this warm space and those intimate eyes, drew out the dangerous honesty.

Across the table, Vaughn seemed as vulnerable as ever to Sasha's distress.

"I have. I  _have,_ Sasha. But it's more complicated than you realize now—"

Sasha exhaled, a soft scoff. Indeed, it was complicated. Complicated enough that the Regent would condemn his own lover to this System he claimed was both atrocious and necessary.

"Fine," he said, quiet again.

A pause.

Gently, "You loved a man from the Ground for years. I know your empathy for them isn't something that will disappear overnight, Sasha. But you came to see things from our perspective in time, no matter how hard it was. Give us another chance. Give me another chance, love. Just put what you saw today aside—"

"Forget it?" He looked up, meeting those hesitant eyes. "That's not possible, Vaughn."

He rose from the dinner table. In silence, he took his unfinished meal back to the kitchen.

At bedtime, Sasha let the drone of routine prepare him for the uneasy night ahead. He was massaging the jarringly rich oils of the Sky into his thigh scars at the bedroom vanity when Vaughn entered. He did not think much of it until the door lock clicked.

A cold struck his bones. He tossed his robe over his leg and turned.

"Vaughn?"

His voice came out quieter than he intended.

Vaughn was removing his connector from his wrist. At Sasha's voice, he glanced up. He followed the flicker of Sasha's gaze to the door. "Ah," he murmured, setting his conn on the drawertop, beside his wilting roses. "It's just a precaution, love. Don't worry over it."

"Precaution?"

Vaughn sat on the bed, facing Sasha. Two paces between them. He nodded, his eyes downcast.

"I've been thinking about what you said about the Ground. About what you saw there. How you can't forget—can't understand why you would let it be." He paused. "There's something that really frightens me, Sasha. And that's losing you. The problem is, no matter how well I try to protect you, there are just too many factors that are out of my control. The System code, for one. Your patterns of reasoning, for another. I can't quite predict when they'll collide."

"What are you talking about?"

Vaughn lowered his head briefly, his hand running through his peppered hair.

"I'm talking about a memory wipe."

Sasha froze. He swallowed. "What?"

The Regent gazed at him. "Come to bed, Sasha."

He didn't move.

A sigh. The sound of it was cutting in the rigid silence of the room. Vaughn stood.

The lamplit shadow wrapped around Sasha's ankles. He stumbled upright and peddled back as the other man approached. "What—what are you—stop—" A hand grabbed his arm. "Vaughn—let  _go_ —" His breaths stuttered as the Regent pulled him toward the bed. His head thundered with the implications. "No. No, no, no, don't, please—"

"I'm not going to hurt you, Sasha."

"I don't want—"

Vaughn pushed him down onto the bed. He struggled, alarmed, confused, but he couldn't fight those caging limbs that held him to the mattress, nor the weight that sank over his body. Vaughn leaned by his lost protests and spoke softly.

"In a few moments, you'll wake from a nightmare, and I'll be here. Everything is going to be alright. I'll keep you safe. I promise."

He couldn't think logically. It was the old, visceral trauma.

"I don't want this, Vaughn—Vaughn, please, let me go, please—" 

"I'm sorry, love. I can't risk the System wiping your memories clean again. I can't. Preempting it is the only way I know. You have to forget what you felt today."

His hands shook, searching for the warmth of the Regent's chest. Seeing those eyes, his terror abated enough for him to realize what was happening. The man was trying to force a memory script. He was  _using_ the Tag on Sasha's spine. He had not simply allowed it. He was using it.

Despite all that Sasha had uncovered over the past few days, this gesture still cut him to the bone.

Love?

A helpless, sick fury flared in his chest.

"You're killing me," he whispered. "You're killing me."

Eyes twisted with pain. "I'm trying to protect you, Sasha. I love—"

" _Fuck_ you."

Vaughn blinked. 

Then a blackness swallowed his eyes. The storm dripped down a poison. Sasha cried out as fingers dug into his collar and shoved him hard into the mattress. Vaughn leaned down and spoke over his lips.

"Fuck me? You have no idea what I've gone through for you. I'm killing you? What the hell do you think it does to me? Fuck me? Don't tempt me, Alex, because if I fucked you now, you wouldn't even remember it."

He froze. His name, like that, from this mouth, stung something cold. The threat felt as if it came from a stranger, loveless and real.

The pressure on him loosened.

Vaughn curled his fingers into Sasha's hair, releasing a shaken breath across his skin. Sasha turned, shivering, but the lips that brushed his cheek were gentle, a tone nothing like that of the earlier words. "That's enough now," said Vaughn. "Sleep. The nightmare will pass soon."

The System would erase his transgressions, he meant.

Sasha closed his eyes. His hands still trembled. But there was only one way forward.

He felt the firm hold on his body relent to soothing touches, the lips upon his skin trail with gentle hushes.  _It's alright, baby, I have you now_ —spell-like, horrific. When he could delay the act no longer, he opened his eyes and gazed at a soft starlight.

"Vaughn," he said quietly.

The Regent smiled gently at him. "It's me, my love. I'm here now."

Sasha felt the tears burn at his eyes, the bile lodge in his throat. He threw his arms around the Regent, shaking furiously. He held on as if this man was his only lifeline, because if he did not—if he did not let himself be consumed by the act—he would surely be found out.

The Regent stroked his back, whispering sweet promises to his ear. But all he heard was  _you wouldn't even remember it._

Would he do it? Had he?

Just how thin was the line between Vaughn Scio's intense love and his unchecked power?

Just how dangerous could this man become?

 _One week_ , he whispered voicelessly.  _One more week._


	12. 12

 

If the hours in the apartment dragged, at least Sasha's time at CyberSec was compact. There was no time to think about anything except what he needed to prepare: false cover scripts, monitor overrides, reliable routes through the thick domain security, all under the façade of a good State architect. Perhaps because he had done it before, the stringent process came to him like instinct.

His largest fear was that someone among the staff would notice his disproportionate amount of time in the private work spaces, doors walled supposedly for concentration. Sancotte did scold him for it once, but the director swept it off, stating that Sasha could do as he needed to as long as it yielded results. That had come with a cold-eyed warning, but Sasha was grateful for the director's confidence. Likely, Demari knew about his Tag. Likely, as with Vaughn, he relied on the System script to keep Sasha from anything subversive.

Friday, the necessary measures were in place. Ghosted in the domain while false script showed him working in a separate workspace, he ran a search through the hanging willow leaves for a match to his own genetic code. The initial result was expectedly null. On his second search, he prodded for irregularities in the branches. The first irregularity he found was a scrambled Tag, which he deciphered easily enough. It was not his; neither were the six other similar ones. The eight irregularity, however, was thickly walled.

It took Sasha twelve minutes over an hour to deconstruct the walls. He knew this time because at 10:34, twenty minutes in, he had glanced at the clock and started counting seconds. He was so strung by the time he matched his code to the unscrambled Tag that the definitive agreement was nearly a relief.

It was almost comical to see his life as a pretty green thread hanging from a branch. Sasha shut his eyes, suppressing the urge to laugh, or to vomit. When he opened them, he managed to assess the script with a surgical detachment. The Tag had all the appearances of being operational, but with the System code indecipherable, any true internal irregularity could not be detected. As long as it kept providing locational feedback to the handlers—the Council and directors—no one would know that its memory functions were frozen.

Unless Sasha slipped in his acting.

Vaughn was the threat there. Since Saturday, Sasha had shut off a part of his mind when he was near the Regent, attempting to maintain his tamed and compliant mask. But the man was sharp, and things between them didn't feel as smooth as before. More hesitation between their sentences. More quiet, sidelong gazes. More sweet words dropped in conversations, as if Vaughn knew he had his share of charming to do. Sasha could not say why, but then again, instinct went beyond the perceptible things.

Friday evening he called Haneul and scheduled the operation for Monday because he could not surreptitiously access CyberSec over the weekend. But three days was a precarious number, and he was nervous about it.

Saturday night, Vaughn took him to dinner and a play.

In an upper balcony of the theatre, Vaughn slid a hand over Sasha's thigh. The touch seemed sweet, not sexual, yet in the aftermath of last weekend, Sasha could only feel the chill in his spine at any contact. For sanity he tried to reason that those words might have been the unintended product of anger—that Vaughn never had, never would, do such a horrific thing. That maybe Vaughn Scio was as bound by the demands of the State as anyone else, title be damned. Maybe the Tag had been implanted against Vaughn's will. Maybe he wasn't the villain.

In the play, the villain was the least invested player, and the rest were victims of bad judgement and human nature.

It was a dark and violent story. Vaughn had murmured, before the curtains spread, that it was a story that had survived many centuries of time, a relic from the long gone past, an examination of human brutality—because in their era, in the Skyworld, blood and gore to the extreme mimicked on the stage were not common realities. Cathartic, he said it was supposed to be, the recognition of our capability for such things in the safety of art.

Sasha did not find it cathartic. It was ugly and tragic, and he couldn't decide who he pitied more: the devoted lover who'd been murdered peripherally in a revenge plot, or the woman who'd been raped and mutilated so that she had no tongue or hands to point at a perpetrator, or the noble and loving father driven so mad by loss and guilt that he killed, not only her rapists, but his daughter as well.

The curtain closed on a vengeful order from the pitiable father's son, and Sasha counted the fourteenth death in the play. Beside him, Vaughn clapped gravely as he turned toward Sasha.

It was not the first time he'd spoken to Sasha since the beginning of the play. He'd dropped several quiet comments throughout. He must have seen it before, or read the script.

"Barbaric, isn't it?"

"I wasn't expecting it."

"You didn't like it?"

Sasha watched the curtains open again. The theater thundered briefly with applause before Vaughn tapped into the controls by his chair, muting the noise in their private space.

"It was well done," said Sasha. Perhaps two weeks ago, he would have been more receptive. "I don't think I have a taste for tragedies."

"I would imagine not," said Vaughn. "The original version of this play was written a thousand years ago, about a time a few hundred years older. You would think that the atrocities in it would have become fantasy by now. Well, for many citizens of Skyworld, they are fantasy."

Beyond the balcony, the lights faded in. Vaughn continued like the two of them were isolated in the dark, but now Sasha could see his eyes, and they were laden with that intoxicating sincerity.

"I remember the first time I watched you on a memorial day for your mother. I remember carrying you into the hospital with a hole in your stomach and not enough pressure to stop the blood from your arms." His hand curled over Sasha's. "You have a kind heart, Sasha. I imagine that when we first met, knowing about the Ground and Haneul and my role in all this, you must have hated me."

Sasha looked away. "I don't hate you."

Vaughn squeezed his hand briefly. "I want us to live in a world where everything we saw on that stage is only fantasy. All of it—the brutality, the envy, the powerless being exploited. It's a far way off, but I think, if we can endure enough, it's possible."

Sasha thought of the fourteen deaths of the play, brutal or not, each deliberate and cold, and he thought of the Tags—the one in his own neck. He swallowed a dry ache, the urge to retort about the Astrid Tree. That the ends did not always justify the means, and what was the end truly going to be like when it was crafted by such a dehumanizing system?

Instead he only said, "That's no small dream."

Vaughn dropped his hand with a light smile. He stood just as languidly, coat slipping over his shoulders with a grace most men in their prime couldn't manage. Leaning forward, he pressed a soft kiss to Sasha's brow.

"I was going to give up. But you keep me chasing after it."

A shiver ran down his spine. Sasha closed his eyes, hiding the reaction.

A little past ten, they arrived home. In bed, the habitual kiss prolonged itself, until Vaughn adjusted his body over Sasha's and began to skim the skin of his throat. It was the third time he had made gestures for more intimacy—the first being the morning after that Friday night in the oceanside house, the second being three nights ago. Each time Vaughn had been courteous enough to relent at the first sign of reluctance. Even now, as Sasha pushed against his chest, he paused.

"I'm sorry," said Sasha. "I..."

Vaughn shook his head. "No. I know. I just want to taste you. To make you feel good. Is that alright?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

Vaughn kissed his cheek. "Please, Sasha. I don't want what he did to keep us from each other for the rest of our lives. Healing this...it needs to start somewhere."

He could have given in to that argument on a better day. Now he hesitated only because there were two more nights, and he was so close to the truth. Afraid of arousing suspicions or triggering a mine— _you wouldn't even remember it_ —he nodded.

Vaughn was gentle. And there  _was_ pleasure, physical. He remembered it had been an intense pleasure last time, at least before the penetration. He remembered the intoxicating image of such a powerful man between his legs. But this time, he couldn't get past the thoughts in his head.

After a while of half-faking it, he pushed Vaughn away. His mind raced, panicking as a frown drew the Regent's brow. How was he to explain that he could not come like this?

"Sasha?"

"I'm sorry," he said.

A hand cupped his cheek. Lifted his eyes. Silver, dilated pupils. "What's wrong?"

He tried out responses in his head.  _Nothing, I'm just not in the mood. What is it?_ No. _Nothing, I just feel tired._ He'd used that last time.  _Nothing. I just..._

"I don't want it like this right now," he said. Vaughn opened his mouth to respond and Sasha quickly continued, his pulse racing. "But you're right. The healing needs to start somewhere."

He shifted, hearing the slow breath, feeling the eyes on him. Vaughn was already near the edge of the bed, and Sasha wanted the frankness of hard, solid ground. So he slid off the bed and knelt. Fingers ran through his hair, heated as they skimmed his cheek, his lips. This was fine, probably: none of it felt familiar. None of it jarred him as brutally as being held down.

He slid the Regent into his mouth, trying to mimic what he had received moments ago. It was strange. Occasionally uncomfortable, and he could not do it as thoroughly as Vaughn did for him. But none of that seemed to matter to Vaughn, who tangled fingers in his hair and shook with the effort to keep from forcing him beyond what he could take. Soon, like a mechanical process with cogs occasionally halting out of time, it was over.

Afterward, Vaughn did not push him. Merely gazed at his flushed face with a soft, adoring expression, pressing a kiss that echoed the gentle love he always promised. The honesty of it was so raw that for a moment, Sasha felt guilty.

But that was foolish, and he did not let himself forget. Sunday night he did the same thing, a little more earnestly as if he enjoyed it, spurred by the adrenaline. Monday could not come fast enough.

 

* * *

 

At precisely 5:05 PM on Monday, after Sancotte's reminder call and most of the others had logged out of the network, Sasha took down the security barriers for a short fifteen second window.

As planned, Haneul's blade entered the System space from an obscured port. The avatar was like a mannequin, faceless, colorless, and generically shaped in a male form. A genderless voice had been communicating telepathically with Sasha through the initial stages of the infiltration; it now sounded vaguely female when they spoke face to face.

"Should I address you by a name?" said Sasha.

"Sure," said the blade, conjuring a sprawling operation panel and toolset.

"What is it?"

With a smile in the tone: "You'll remember soon enough, yeah? And if you don't—heck, Alex, I'll cut your Tag myself."

It sounded like they had been close.

"Are you in comm with Haneul?"

"Nah. Can't risk it. Not him—you. The comm line could trigger security issues. This it? Your Tag?"

He had navigated them on microview to his walled leaf, still guarded, the characters large enough to be legible—if only they were decipherable. "It is. I'm told you need a thirty-minute window with it. We have about fifty. Before I remove the security scripts, can you walk me through what you'll be doing?"

The blade chuckled.

"Thought you might ask. We actually constructed tools written  _in_ Astrid encryption code, you know, to speed up the process and to keep them vultures from figuring it out in case they ever got hands on our stuff. But Doc told me you'd wanna get the raw reads before you let us touch your Tag. So here—take a look."

She slid her toolkit his way and spent the next twenty minutes explaining their functions. Sasha had brought his own kit to check the internal code of her tools. None of them appeared contrary, but the code itself, though unencrypted, seemed as complex as anything could be. He speculated as to what had gone into developing these tools and their implied procedure, and the mere thought felt overwhelming and inconsiderable. Astrid Nnamani had been the mind of a millennia after all, and since her death, the security of the System had only been elaborated upon. It was impossible, what the blade claimed she could do, yet by evidence of the code she displayed, it  _was_ possible.

"Did you come up with this?"

Inside the networks, laughs carried oddly. They were as much a sensation as a sound, a tangible ripple in the mind. "Funny, angel. Guess memory fucks will do that, eh? No, it wasn't me."

He paused.

"Then..."

She waved her hand. "Talk while we work. Time's ticking."

He took down the security around his Tag, leaving the green line vulnerable.

The blade ran another command. Her avatar's arms multiplied into twelve and morphed into a malleable length and thin shape. She started, carefully, to pry apart the lines of code, narrating the process as she did. Every shifted piece left a ghost image behind it, explained as an illusion for the System so that it would not trigger a modification alarm.

"Let's see we're working with." After a few moments of inspection, the blade whistled. "Damn, she's good."

"She?"

"You saw her. The virus? Cleaned up your Tag nice for us. This will be quick."

After some short minutes, the blade exposed the portion of the Tag that latched directly to Sasha's central nervous system. "Here's the open heart surgery," she said, conjuring a line of thin knives and needles from her arsenal. She dissolved six of her twelve arms and picked up four knives. "Don't freak, Alex, but this is the part where I kill you."

He didn't. One of the knives he had inspected earlier contained an imitation of the System's own execution script, which could be triggered by the Council at will to be rid of troublesome Grounders. Except this knife's execution script prompted a false death.

"You'll be registered as dead for fourteen seconds. I'm going to void the link between the System and the implant then. Do us all a favor and don't ask me any questions in those fourteen seconds."

"Why fourteen?"

"System's method of execution is absolute. If the execution command from Astrid hits your brain, you're dead for good. Tricky thing is, Nnamani anticipated false death as a security bypass, so her System sends the killing command continuously for about six minutes to make sure the brain's properly down." She lifted another needle from one of her hands. "Remember this one?"

"It slows the command flow."

"By a lot," she said. "Our window is fourteen seconds because that's how long we have before the first real execution command hits your implant."

"Why so risky?"

"In short, it's the only time the System code is really vulnerable. We try to black the Tag at any point, it's going to react with the execution command and a host of security measures. By initiating the false death script, we avoid the security problems and buy ourselves two extra seconds."

He swallowed. "And you need those two extra seconds? It's that tight?"

"Well, yes. But in your case, we might have back-up."

"What do you mean?"

"The virus that froze the memory scripts. I think if she senses what we're doing to your Tag, she'll keep anything lethal from happening to you."

The blade drew a script of code from her operation panel and wrapped it around the lines of his Tag. Perhaps noticing Sasha's sudden stillness, she paused as the code intertwined on its own.

"Scared?"

"Of course."

The blade smiled with her mannequin face. "Have faith, angel. Wasn't that what you told him?"

"Who?"

"Haneul." When he didn't respond, she said, "I'm starting now."

The blade sank her knife into the code. The script of it melded with his Tag. A moment later, the Tag rippled, the code turned red, and the countdown began. The command line flickered character by character, down the crimson-lit willow leaf.

Vaguely, he thought that dying wouldn't be as horrible as it seemed. What had he to live for if he couldn't rid himself of this Tag? In the dark and chained like a pet, he didn't even know. He didn't even know if anyone would truly mourn him, Vaughn aside, and Vaughn was a liar.

It was odd. He imagined Vaughn finding his dead body. Despite the revelations of the past weeks, he suddenly realized that he didn't want that to happen. Neither did he want to die without knowing the truth, because perhaps, in truth, Vaughn was not the monster he lately felt like. Perhaps he was a good man, a good man with bigger dreams and greater strength than any other man, and so his wrongs had some kind of justification.

But what kind of feeling was this? To want to live, in order to forgive Vaughn Scio?

Despite it all, had he been charmed after all?

He discarded the thought and focused on the scene in front of him. Emotions were all peripheral now; he'd either die in the next few seconds or he'd have the cold, hard facts. All of them, down to the brutal reality of his worst terrors.

The blade worked with an impressive concentration, silent and still, except for her hands. The needles which had been set into the Tag unraveled, and their viral codes seeped inside. Sasha watched the characters run their corrosive course, turning the hundred security measures of the System against each other, burning out the link using the very scripts that were meant to keep it intact.

He watched the whole of his Tag fade from red to black. The blade seemed to exhale at twelve seconds. At fifteen, his Tag disappeared from the branch like willow leaves blown to ash.

"It's done," murmured Sasha.

"It's done," said the blade. "How do you feel?"

He paused. "The same. I can't...I still don't remember anything."

The blade paused.

"Odd. He said you should be restored almost immediately." She shook her head. "Well, System code's a lot more complicated than a stopper you pull off. For most of us, it usually takes a few hours for recent memories. Sometimes days, weeks, months for the older ones. But it doesn't matter right now—they'll check your Tag soon, and you need to get out of the upper before they get you."

He hesitated, weighing his options. "Alright. Thank you."

"Hurry. MM is waiting for you in lower East Central, deck 67. Go quickly. I'll take care of the rest here."

He nodded once and exited the network.

 

* * *

 

Out on the falcon parking deck, Sasha tossed his connector into his vehicle, pulled on a fresh conn he had bought last week, and then hurried to the public rails where he escaped the watchful security of CyberSec. He did not go to lower East Central, not yet. Despite what the blade had done for him, he could not hand himself over to Haneul until he knew the truth. So he found a private, quiet corner in a sidewalk café, turned on the sound insulator, and fished out the burner comm from midground.

The burner was good for three calls. Sasha had one more remaining. He pressed the button.

The blade said that memories typically took an indefinite time to return. This made sense with the logistics of the science. The System code not only suppressed memory, but replaced it. For the brain to distinguish false memories and recall true memories, there needed to be some kind of trigger. Yet Sasha's case was unique, because everything in his life before September was a blank. His brain did not need to distinguish anything false—it only needed to recall.

In theory, his true memory should be returning now that the suppression code was gone. This blank meant that it was either permanently erased—an unsavory thought, and contrary to Hanuel's promise—or that it was repressed by some psychological factor.  _Trauma,_ Vaughn's doctor had said. Perhaps there was a degree of truth.

He needed to break through that internal defensive barrier.

In these past weeks, there had been two things that staunchly burned through the erasure script. One of them was tucked above his bedroom drawer, too close to Vaughn Scio to risk. But the other—he picked up the call almost instantly.

" _Are you here?"_

A distorted sound. Too vague.

"No. I don't remember anything yet. I was hoping you could help."

A pause.

" _I understand. But you can't stay in the upper, Alex. The security is too tight and they'll be after you soon."_

"I know. I'm in a cafe, lower. Can you remove the voice alteration?"

The doctor hesitated.

" _Are you sure? I don't think blacking the Tag's changed your physiological instincts about me. It won't be pleasant."_

"I'm sure."

Another pause.

Static hissed through the comm. Then, softly:

" _Here, cheonsa."_

Two words. He had expected it would take more. But maybe it was  _that_ word, and the unmistakable softness of this embedded voice. He breathed, letting the mixed horror sweep through his skull.

This time, the feeling ate his mind. He dropped the comm from his hand, not hearing its heavy clack against the floorboards. He sank his head into his palms, shutting his eyes as the fragments came in waves. A man breaking his bones. A man cursing his love. A man bleeding him dry. Gazing up at the sky from a factory deck, the old breeze in his tired hair, the stars inside his eyes.

"Oh god," he whispered. "Oh, god. No. No. No."

Then came the flood, and overwhelmed, his consciousness flickered out.


	13. 13

Winter came early in 2576. Barely November, the snow swirled about the towers of the Sky, the night glitter of the cityscape caught upon the crystal flakes. It was a beautiful view from within the warmth of a falcon. Atmospheric, a vision accompanied by the hum of gentle rock music, drumming to the rhythm of the storm.

"I'm so sorry about this, baby. I know you've been waiting to see that play for a while..."

Alex smiled at the apology from the driver's seat. His mother had bought them tickets to  _Across the South Sea_  to celebrate his recent achievement with his internship, but not a half-hour into the show, the hospital had called. There was no helping it—a doctor was obligated to her patients.

"It isn't a problem, mom." He glanced at the rails to navigate a dip into flight mode. "I could use a visit down. It's been a while."

"It's nothing to miss."

"It's where you spend most of your day."

The corner of her lips quirked, a crease of age in the buccal padding of her skin. Women her age could erase such things by science, but Clara Davis had always been a bit different. Her family came from the lower, where even citizens of the Sky tended to be frugal. Marrying his father, an assemblyman of the upper, had been the boldest transgression she had ever made in the Davis name. They did not speak with her much anymore.

She still worked among the familiars of her old community though, floors three-hundred of Central Hospital, a place far more rugged and hectic than the calm pristine levels where Alex always went for his own check-ups. Here on the unceremonious gray deck they parked, and Alex followed her through the unadorned halls, which smelled of routinely scented citric disinfectant. He had been raised by the prestige of his father, surrounded by deliberate décor and aromas; down a few hundred floors, it was a different lifestyle. He had learned not to disdain it because of his mother, but else, he wondered if he would have turned out like his preparatory school peers—believing that the lower you lived, the lower you were.

They ended up going lower still than the floors three-hundred. For a short time Alex waited in his mother's office,  working on a weekend assignment on machine learning, until she returned to inform him that she needed to fetch medication from the midground stocks. Such a thing never happened in the upper Sky, where all the necessary supplies were kept in routine stock. But here, the maintenance was not as stringent.

"You can wait here, if you'd like," she said.

"I'll drive you," he said.

In truth, Alex would have preferred to stay in the stable warmth, wrapped up in the electric text of academia. But the media gave terrible impressions of midground at night, particularly with the illicit Ground activity in recent years, and he did not want her going down alone.

It was a ten minute drive to the lowest floors of Central. Alex dropped his mother in front of the entrance, then took the falcon for parking on a midground hospital deck. When exited the falcon and walked onto midground, it seemed as if he had emerged into an underwater universe where the liquid was the pressure of the looming towers. He wanted to look around. He was afraid too. Intense curiosity and timid apprehension tore at him, until a vibration on his wrist demanded his attention.

It was a message from his mother:  _Come help me with the boxes! R104._

With a bit of reluctance, Alex walked away from the midground landscape. Inside the hospital, he was quickly taken by another new scene.

About a dozen adults and four children were waiting in the lobby, some with imperfect skin, some a little under or oversized. A blue dot shone through the two napes exposed to Alex. They were Grounders, perhaps permitted workers of the Sky or permitted visitors to the hospital. He had heard somewhere that Grounders frequently requested the advanced medicine of the Sky for the more troublesome medical conditions; a rare few were granted the permission up. Even so, their treatment occurred down here, which was a world away from the amenities of the real Sky. The lowest Central floors functioned more as a warehouse: over half the space was used for the storage of newly manufactured machines and medications.

Discomfort nudged at him, seeing the Grounders as tangible human beings in need. He shook it away, thinking of his mother. He meant to check in with the receptionist about the location of R104 and slid into a short line behind two others. There, his eyes wandered to the lobby's television screen.

The news channel was replaying an earlier broadcast. The first few seconds were innocuous, a report on the Sector 3 artificial zoo development. Then Alex realized he remembered this exact broadcast—his friends at the university had flocked around it. In just a few moments, hisface would appear on the screen, smiling as he shook the hand of the Regent Hayashi.

It was recognition for a System security project he had completed at his internship with CyberSec. He suspected the media coverage was the State's way of parading around new talent after the chain of Ground security breaches. He didn't care one way or another, but right now, he was among blue Tags. Worried he would be recognized, he ducked out of line and into the lonelier corridor. 

He wandered a while, looking for a pattern by which to find R104. He was just about to text his mother for some direction when he found R139 and R138. The path of these numbers led away from the active part of the hospital. At last he hit the empty corridor of R110, and here, the ceiling lights were dimmer with lazy maintenance. It was silent until he made the turn.

Faint, indistinguishable noises came from further down. He thought nothing of it, assuming it was his mother moving around supplies. But the closer he got, the stranger the pitch became.

A low, whispered hiss of noise.

Voices.

Foreign, frantic words.

His nerves spiked. He watched the shadow leaking from the open doorway of R104. The storeroom had been opened, but the lights within were off. That muttered tongue was indecipherable. A language of Grounders.

His mother had told him to come this way. She hadn't said anything since. He knew he needed to back away, now, run, but instead, he saw his pale fingers graze the edge of the doorframe. He peeked around.

He staggered back.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward him. Another pair, mulberry, stared back from the ground, glassy and limp.

"Oh," he whispered. "Oh."

That foreign tongue hissed. Before he could pull himself together, two men grasped him.

"No—"

A hand clamped over his mouth. An arm encircled his throat. He lost oxygen.

Airless, he struggled against the bodies. The last thing he saw before his eyes rolled to black were the indifferent, empty eyes of his mother. 

 

* * *

 

The first dream he had on the Ground was a simple, innocent one. In his dream he was fourteen years old, an age where boys should be getting into trouble with their friends, but at fourteen, Alex had no friends. He had been catapulted through the grade levels too quickly, and at his elite preparatory school, he was seen as awkward competition—someone too young to be bullied, too unusual to be understood, too advantaged to be liked. In terms of relationships, he had only the adults in his life.

In his dream, he was with his mother. They were on the public garden deck, making angels in the snow. She sang a song to him he could not distinguish, but he could feel it coming to an end. The snow slowly froze into ice.

He woke to that ice cold, to an ache in all his bones and his bones pressing his skin to a hard surface. His nose brushed the smell of coppered dust. His eyes saw cement, dark in the night, and the night spilling through the glassless high windows alongside the winter air. He was inside a tiny room with a single shut door.

For a merciful moment, he was confused. Shortly after he recalled he had been suffocated. He didn't want to think on that moment or its surrounding circumstances—not like this. So, stiff and unsteady, he focused on the present.

They had taken his coat and scarf. They had taken his shoes, maybe to keep him from running. To his peripheral surprise, they had not taken the rest of his clothes, but they had searched through his out-turned pockets. They might as well have taken everything; sensitive as he was to the cold, the fabric that remained hardly warmed his body. His toes and fingers were already hurting.

He tried to sit upright, which was clumsy because his wrists and ankles had been bound by cheap rope. His skin would break from the chafing before long. He tasted crusted blood above his upper lip. But his vision worked fine, and his smell, and his hearing, and he felt no particular headache except the exhaustion, and that was all relief.

They had also left him a glass of water and a roll of bread, and Alex judged the graciousness of the gesture by counting the hours until someone visited.

Seven. By then, he was parched, hungry again, and certain that his captors meant no kindness. They also meant to kill him eventually, because the woman that came in to drop off his second glass and bread roll did so without covering her face.

Alex did not recognize her. But she must be affiliated with the men who attacked his mother, and so bile crawled up his throat. The dry frigidity oiled, he said, "Why aren't I dead?"

The woman looked at him. Her disgust nearly matched what he felt.

"Don't worry, birdie. You'll be, just as soon as we've got what we want."

"Which is?"

She shrugged and left.

Slowly, Alex uncurled from the tight position he'd taken to maintain his plummeting body heat. He fetched the water and drank. He eyed the bread, wondering if it were not better to compress it. Choke on it. Die. There was no way out of this barren room, and he could very well guess his fate at the hands of resentful Grounders. People who would kill an innocent doctor like his—

He clamped a hand over his mouth.

_No. No. Not now._

Shut his eyes.

Swallowed.

Soon, he fell into a gnawing sleep, the food untouched. It was the creaking metal door which woke him.

The first thing he noticed was that the lighting through the high windows had become an artificial daytime. Next were the heavy footsteps, multiple pairs. Alex blinked and gazed up at a tall, thin man, skin like coffee and speckled faintly with old pockmarks, a gravity to his pronounced features. Two others followed him. This man looked at Alex and said, "Karen. Bring us some chairs, will you? So we can talk like gentlemen."

The woman vanished. Beyond the locked room seemed to be a large, badly lit space. Alex could not see much of it.

"Hope you've rested well, Mr. Myeong?"

Alex looked down, locking his jaws. The man walked over, kneeling. He grasped Alex's chin and forced it upward, where Alex glared at dark, unkind eyes behind a pair of glasses.

"You're very distinctive, aren't you? A good thing our boys watch the news. We sent them up for some pearls and they came back with a diamond. And you get to live a little longer and help us poor folk out a bit, hm?"

"I'm not doing anything for you, murderer."

The man chuckled. Behind him, the woman dragged in two chairs. She arranged them across from each other as the spectacled man rose. He nodded toward the third person, a large, daunting male with a crooked smile as he came to hoist Alex onto one of the chairs. The spectacled man took the opposite one.

"Listen, Mr. Myeong. I know some things might be, ah, difficult for you to understand, coming from the pretty blue and all that. So we'll make this easy for you. You tell us everything you know about the Tags, we give you a quick and easy death. Alright? I'm sure, a CyberSec prodigy like yourself, you've plenty to offer."

He understood the implication clearly. His silence was only half resistance, and another half numb fear.

The spectacled man smiled.

"Don't worry, Mr. Myeong. I'm not expecting an answer right away. You'll have some time to think over it." He stood then, looking toward the other two. "Keep our guest company, won't you?"

"Oh, gladly."

The spectacle man walked out. The door shut. A small latch clicked. Only then did Alex notice the suitcase they had brought inside the room. He glimpsed its sharp, glistening contents for a moment before the large man obscured his view.

"Gonna need you to sit still for a minute..."

The man and the woman bound his limbs to the chair while he struggled, instinctively and pointlessly. His breath came in wordless, frightened gasps. The man sat, sliding his chair intimately closer. He pulled on elastic, disposable gloves, and the snap of the material drew a quiet whimper. It sounded like it had come from a child.

"Loosen up, birdie," said the man, a nasal sound. "This here's the chill part. Just gonna butter you up a bit."

The woman handed him a tool from the suitcase. Sharp. Delicate. Pliers of a short.

The man tapped the point of the tool against Alex's cheek. Alex tensed, turned his face quickly away from the cold metal. The tool followed his skin, relentless.

"Wanna know something nice, birdie? You've got a good face. Yeah, real nice."

The point of the tool dug into Alex's jaw. Stung. He hitched a breath, another noise in his throat—he swallowed it as the man leaned to speak in his ear.

"Wanna know something not so nice? You give us any trouble, we got some  _cabrones_ who'd love to fuck that face up. And I'm not talking 'bout the way I'm 'bout to fuck you up. You got me?"

He inhaled.

"Fuck. You."

The words were dry, foreign. Vulgarity that had no place in his polished life.

The man chuckled. "Don't swing that way myself, birdie. But like I said, them  _cabrones_..."

"Leo. Stop wasting time."

"I'm getting there, I'm getting there. Hey, birdie, you like your left hand or your right?"

Alex shook his head. "Stop it. Stop."

"What? I haven't even gotten started. Here, let's go right..."

"N-no—"

The man took his bound hands. The woman pressed his struggling shoulders down, keeping the chair grounded. Alex saw his vision blur.

"Don't, no, don't—"

The man pried out Alex's index finger from his fist. Positioned the pliers against his nail.

"It's alright. You can scream."

The teeth of the pliers clamped. The man gripped Alex's bone white finger and began to pull, slowly. Alex screamed. 

 

* * *

 

In truth, Alex had taken up the CyberSec internship because he had wanted to make his father happy.

Since his son's conception and first genetic readings, Eugene Myeong had been ambitious about the legacy of his family name. Every spare coin he had went into sculpting programs for Alex, priming him to stand at the top of his class. He had envisioned Alex as a politician like himself, until they discovered his affinity for logic puzzles. Next, mathematics. Then, the network.

Alex did love the sprawl of cyberspace, the laws of code, the functional structures he made as like god crafting little creatures. Picking apart the lines of a program like a surgeon handling life. Something about it was otherworldly, empowering,  _grounding_ —a feeling of belonging when he could never quite fit in with his human peers. But it was the network and its code that he loved, not the political dimension of a department like CyberSec.

He took up the internship because his father had been delighted that he—a young university student—had been offered such a prestigious opportunity. He was a little curious about the inner workings of their State security. He wanted to see the most advanced and secretive codes of their society. That was all.

On the matter of Tags, he only knew that they acted as a monitor on the Grounders, overseen by a system known as the Astrid Tree. In CyberSec, occasionally he would hear his supervisors refer to this Tree. He did not have the clearance to access the code or the details of its function, but still, they had assigned him to a project on improving the external security of the Tree's domain. His success with an innovative security device was what had earned him the media-covered esteem.

And now, subjected him to this torture.

"You're a good fuck, little vulture. Should we go ahead and give you a symmetrical look?"

The man before him pat his bound hands. Alex exhaled small, stuttered breaths, pained as the rough flesh hit his five raw fingertips. The man turned his hands, revealing the yet unharmed left hand.

"Yes? No? Give me an answer, birdie."

Alex shivered. His throat felt torn. He felt exhausted.

"No," he whispered. "No."

"Ah. Tired? I guess we should let you rest a bit."

The man stood up, stretching. The woman released her hold on his shoulders. Alex held his breath until they had packed the suitcase, until they had lifted away its vile contents as they stepped toward the door. The woman fished keys out of her pocket.

Alex lowered his head and exhaled. He closed his eyes, waiting for the relief of that locking door.

The suitcase hit the ground with a thud.

He looked up.

The man stared down at him with a grin. "Just kidding, birdie."

"Seriously, Leo?"

"Relax, Karen. Day's early. Come, let's even those pretty hands out."

Alex dropped his head, vision blurring. Then the tears spilled in a frightened mess, and the chair trembled. The man leaned forward, pressing away his tears, speaking in a mocking, soft voice.

"Oh, no, birdie, don't cry. Really, don't cry. You'll turn me."

A sob wracked his shoulders. The man sighed and grasped his hands again, the tip of cold, wet metal pressing against his fingertips.

"Now you make  _me_ feel like the bad guy. You're the one latching nooses around our necks. Hey, birdie, why don't you help us out, hm? Help us out, and we'll let you go easy. Won't let none of my boys touch you."

"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know anything..."

The man hummed. Alex screamed again.

 

* * *

 

He did know, of course, some things. What he had really meant to say was  _fuck you_ , but he'd been too overwhelmed by the fear.

He felt no undying loyalty to the State. This was for his mother. This was for his father. This was for the people who didn't deserve to be harmed by these dirty, murderous, heartless dogs. And it was for himself—because, yes, they said they meant to kill him, but his father had to be looking for him. There had to be a chance.

Living meant revenge. He needed to try to survive.

He needed to keep quiet.

The next day, they came back. He was incoherent, burning, curled on the ground. The man took one long look at him, then sighed and crossed his arms.

"Seriously? It's been a day."

"What'd you expect?" said the woman. "He's not conditioned for this environment. Toxins might get to him before we can."

The man knelt. Shoved him into a sitting position against the wall. Alex cried out, voiceless. His entire hands ached. Wrists ached. Fire crawled up his forearms.

"Boy's weak as a fucking lily."

"Yeah, well, we've got to keep him alive. I'll call the doctor."

The man sighed again. "Fuck. Isn't there someone else?"

"Not anyone we can trust."

"Fuck. I hate that  _cabron_."

"I'll call him in."

The woman vanished. The man swallowed Alex's vision once more. With a third sigh, he picked up Alex's hands, stroking the infected fingers. "Well, birdie, looks like we're getting you a doctor. Aren't you lucky?"

Alex didn't respond.

With a pleasant smile, the man snapped Alex's index finger. 

 

* * *

 

Alex dreamed of a grave of jagged stones. There beneath the mound, his mother's distant voice screamed for help. He had no tools, no time. Only his bare hands by which to dig, even as the stones turned into blades, and the touch burned, oh, how it burned.

He wanted to stop. The moment he thought this, he woke up.

The door lock was clinking again. Here on the ground, the mechanism was archaic, a small hole with a physical, indented key. He listened to the sound, seconds dragging into minutes, wishing that door would never open. Just a moment longer of solitude. One more. One more.

No more.

His torturer entered. Alex glimpsed him and looked away. He barely registered the shadow behind that man, a pair of unfamiliar footsteps slowing to a firm stop. There was a long moment of silence.

"Get out."

It was a new voice. Male, hard. Soft.

Alex looked up.

He met the eyes of its owner, an indecipherable dark. A young man perhaps in his mid, late twenties—it was very difficult to say in the fever, with the rugged hair and stubble of what appeared to be a callously kempt face. A distinctive face—an East Asian classification by the old standards. Only because this man did not look at Alex with the same temperature as the others, Alex allowed himself a faint, exhausted curiosity.

"Listen,  _hermano._ Not sure if you know who this kid is, but—"

The Asian man turned his gaze toward the large man. "You want me to do my job, you get the fuck out, Chavera."

Alex shivered and closed his eyes. A few moments later, footsteps retreated. The door shut.

He looked up once more. Seeing the new man begin to approach with a bag in his hand, Alex shoved his body upright. He held out a bloodied hand.

"Stop. Don't—"

"It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you." The man dropped his bag. He knelt in front of Alex. "My name is Haneul. I'm a doctor."

Alex's hand trembled, a pointless barrier for a moment longer. At last, tired, he lowered it.

The doctor let the pause dissipate gently. Slowly, he shrugged off his winter coat. It was a cheap, patched synthetic coat, and when he set it gently over Alex's shoulders, it smelled of lemon and onions, smoke, chemicals, of wet rust. The heat it carried from its owner's body swallowed Alex, impossibly warm. He exhaled a small, disbelieving sound.

"How long have they kept you here?" said the doctor, now rustling through his bag.

"Three—" No voice. He tried again. "Three days."

"Have they fed you?"

Alex didn't answer. The doctor had set up a cloth to cover the ground. He took the next moment to set some supplies upon it.

"What's your name?"

Alex swallowed. He felt the syllables lodge, silent. The doctor didn't press.

"Here. Let me see your hands."

He lifted his bound hands. The indecipherable look returned. The doctor pulled out a knife at his belt and sliced through the rope around his wrists. Alex, who had been gritting his teeth through the pain of contact, breathed at the sharp sensation.

"You're tough for bird, aren't you?"

"Don't mock me," he said, a scratched whisper.

"I'm not mocking you." He took Alex's right hand gently. "I'm going to disinfect the wounds. It'll sting."

When Alex didn't answer, the doctor proceeded as he had said. It did sting, but only where the raw wounds were touched. Elsewhere, the doctor's hands were careful. He worked silently until the last bandage knotted around the broken index finger.

"This one will take a few weeks, I'm afraid. I'll get you a brace for it to keep it out of harm's way."

Alex scoffed. The doctor looked up.

"Are you an idiot?" said Alex.

"No. At least, I don't think so."

"They brought you to fix me so that they can keep torturing me."

The doctor rolled the cloth on the ground and tucked his supplies into his bag. "They won't."

Alex shook his head. Still fevered, the motion disoriented him. He touched his brow by the back of his hand, a shadow obscuring the mad doctor, a blackness blocking out the shuffling. Then a touch pressed to his sleeve. He lowered his arm and opened his eyes.

The doctor pressed a syringe into his throat. It was such a fluid motion that, hazed, Alex could not register what was happening until the needle was already out. Poison? Death—that escape was too absolute. He wasn't ready.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to frighten you."

"No. No, I..."

His words lost strength, not even a whisper. His weight fell.

The doctor slipped a hand beneath his head, guiding him gently to the ground. "It's alright. Sleep. I'm going to get you out of here." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sooorrryyyy about the delay!! Got back to the US after 2 yrs abroad last month. America is more distracting than I remember and I may have been totally sidetracked by food and WiFi. Someone can now hold me accountable for weekly updates again. (srsly please yell at me if I slack off)
> 
> Also, the pace of the story does slow a little as we explore the development of Alex's relationship with Haneul. But! Vaughn's coming back in three or four chapters, so hold tight friends ;)


	14. 14

Alex woke to what felt like the reprieve of a dream: a soft bed, a heated room, the clean scent of bloodless chemical lemon. He knew it was not a dream because his gut clawed and his throat ached, and his head throbbed with disorienting intensity. Dreams were not so sore. But reality, as he last knew it, was not so innocuous.

He blinked, lids heavy. He was in someone's cramped bedroom. A single lamp illuminated the night hour. A deep dent decorated the plain steel wall. Clothes hung in a doorless closet, the backdrop to a filled and cracking laundry basket. A chipped desk stood with overhead shelves, topped with overworn books. This was all peripheral to the man sitting in the chair, arms crossed, head drooped. Asleep.

Black strewn hair and callused long hands. It was the doctor. Alex couldn't remember his name.

He did remember the words that sent him to sleep. Alex shifted, grimacing at the ache, but wanting a better look at his unexpected rescuer's shadowed face. The light was dim. But there—an ugly, violet bruise by his jaw. Fevered and confused, Alex conjoined the image with the man's unconscious body, and panicked that he had been badly hurt. He reached a hand forward, though even as his sense came back to him, the doctor began to shift awake. Alex withdrew his hand and averted his eyes.

The doctor groaned softly. Alex watched the man's hands uncross. His right knuckles were dusted with recent scabbing.

"You're awake."

Alex looked up at the tired comment. Though exhausted and hazed, he tried to push into a sitting position. The doctor immediately grabbed his shoulder and guided him gently down again.

"Ah, no. Body's got a full plate right now. Best not to strain it."

He didn't fight this. Meanwhile, the doctor grabbed a bottle of liquid and urged him to drink it. It tasted vaguely of ginger and honey.

"That'll get you through the night," said the doctor. "I'll have some proper broth for you in the morning."

Something about these words stung his eyes. The kindness, perhaps, after those three days in hell, in a place that still resembled hell. He nodded, not trusting his ability to speak just yet.

"Hey. You'll be fine." A smile slipped into that voice. "Sky gave you a hell of an immune system. Pretty extraordinary compared to our guys down here. All that new pathogen exposure and trauma would've wrecked us. But you're putting up a quick fight."

Alex lifted a hand. The doctor's eyes followed quizzically, until Alex touched his own jaw in gesture.

"You're hurt."

The doctor looked surprised for a moment before he chuckled. "Ah, this? Where I grew up, this was a daily fashion check. Don't mind it. I tried to tell those bastards you needed some proper treatment at the clinic, and it took a little extra convincing. Don't worry. You're safe here now."

"Are you working with them?"

At the soft question, the doctor's smile slipped a little. "They supply my clinic with goods we can't get on the Ground. The kind of things we need to take care of our people. And in exchange, I take care of their people, no questions asked. So yes, I work with them. But I'm not one of them."

Alex closed his eyes, nodding. He saw the hallways to the storage rooms of midground Central. Supplies—the supplies for his clinic that the doctor spoke of, those were what the Grounders had been going for when they killed his mother. He felt a bitter, directionless ache.

Gently, a hand touched his brow.

"Still high," said the doctor. "You should go back to sleep."

"Won't they come after me?" said Alex. "After you?"

"It's political. The clinic has more support in these parts than their resistance group, and a resistance isn't worth a damn without backing. They won't cross any lines here, not yet." A pause. "Say, what kept you from talking?"

"They were going to kill me."

"If you let me pass along what they want to know, I'll make sure they leave you alone for good."

Alex pulled the covers closer as his body curled. "Is that why you're helping me?"

"No. But it'd make things a lot easier on us both if we got them off your back."

"I'll leave, if you want."

A pause.

"You wouldn't be safe." The doctor sighed. "Forget it. Get some rest."

Through the fabric, Alex murmured his tired response. "They aren't good people. I don't know who they would hurt if I told them what I know. I'm sorry."

It was quiet for a long time.

"I see," said the doctor. "You never told me your name."

Alex blinked open his eyes. He found the doctor gazing down at him, the dim lamp silhouetting his profile. Frays of his strewn hair, copper in the light. 

"Alex," he said.

"Alex."

"Your name? I'm sorry, I can't..."

"Haneul," said the doctor.

"Haneul," said Alex. It felt strange on his tongue, not quite right. Slippery as he drifted.

He heard a smile in the doctor's voice. "Close enough."

"Haneul," Alex said again. "Thank you."

Quiet again.

The doctor responded eventually, maybe, words in a soft voice. Alex didn't quite hear, falling asleep once more.

 

* * *

 

The next time Alex woke, he was alone. By then his fever had cooled, which afforded him a new clarity about his surroundings. The first he noticed was a golden sliver on the steel wall, surreal until he realized it was artificial sunlight, peeking in from the cracks of two cheap cloth curtains. The building was not particularly soundproof, and the quiet sounded like morning.

He sat up, feeling his throat splinter from the dryness, and like a kind god was listening, saw a full bottle of water on the chair beside the bed. A sealed container of the doctor's promised broth laid with it.

Famished and dehydrated, Alex took both. The water had a faintly metallic tinge, muted by the honey and ginger. The broth carried a peculiar herbal aftertaste, perhaps medicinal, but in the moment, it was the most wonderful meal that Alex could remember. It was still hot too.

While he ate, he surveyed the room. It was more cluttered than he remembered from his brief conscious moments in the night—not messy, no, just filled with things. His eyes were drawn to the row of books on the desk shelves: medical texts, reference books, ambiguous titles with a narrative air. Alex had only ever seen physical books in the capital sector's State Museum, which kept a grand library modeled after history. He had read from one out of curiosity and never again—the concept of singular, set pages was bulky and inconvenient. Rarely did he even handle note paper, so it struck him to see a thick, bound stack of it lying beside a slim black pen.

After downing the last of the broth, Alex set aside the container and went to inspect this book. It was smaller than a tablet by half, easily carried in a large coat pocket. The cover was a soft and wearing gray, unimpressive and unlabeled. Similar unlabeled notebooks, more beaten that this, sat in a row on a second shelf. A ribbon hung between the pages a small third of the way through. He opened it there.

It was a journal. The last entry was dated just a day after Alex had been brought to the Ground. The numbers were all Alex could read. The entry itself was in an unfamiliar script, sprawling lines and circles that seemed like they could be undecipherable even to their original creator. But it had the impression of air, fluid and distinct simultaneously, and the longer Alex stared, the more striking the beauty.

He set the journal down after a moment. He lifted his gaze to the upper shelf, where he thought he had seen the binding of what appeared to be a foreign language dictionary. Before he found it, his peripheral vision caught a row of shapes hidden by the shadow.

They were set into an angled desk shelf that Alex had not seen from the bed. At first glance, they seemed to be cheap metal decor, but when Alex looked closer, he saw that they were made of straw.

A little straw rabbit. A cat. A ram with spiraling horns. A mouse with a chipped ear—the extraordinary delicacy of that detail. A—monkey? A dozen others behind it.

Alex stretched his injured fingers closer, lured by fascination. But he couldn't quite bring himself to touch. There was a particular intimacy, more so than even this private journal. Maybe it was the precise intent of the straw, each weave with the exactness of an artisan. Maybe it was the loose trails dangling from the monkey's shoulders, an unfinished work, vulnerable.

Hesitant, he lowered his eyes to his own fingers. The bandages there had been delicately wrapped too. He hardly felt a thing anymore.

But him, a spoiled brat from the Sky—a cooperating member of the system that exploited the Ground. Why would this unfamiliar doctor be so generous with him? What kind of person was he, really? Was there an ulterior motive? Or was he as kind as the warm broth suggested?

Alex turned aside from the table, clutching his sweater closer in the uncertainty. It was then he realized that the sweater was oversized, not his own. His soft pants pooled at his ankles. His feet were bare, cold on the tiled ground—but there, by the bed. A pair of slippers had been left for him. He stepped into these and went to the door.

It was unlocked. Outside was the living space of a small apartment, as packed as the bedroom with boxes. A desk with a sleeping archaic computer rested by the window wall, which displayed a view of distant smog and the discolored exterior of an adjacent building. Boxes covered the floor. Unpacked groceries laid on the counter separating the living space from the kitchenette. Alex eyed the groceries for a moment, then checked the front door. This, too, he could unlock from inside; it opened to a corridor. He shut it and locked it again quickly after hearing the echo of footsteps, though his hands lingered on the knob.

Freedom was a dangerous temptation. He wanted to be home. But he was unfamiliar with this place, and Haneul had told him he was only protected inside this building. No doubt, if the others wanted him badly enough, they would have people waiting in the streets.

He went to the window instead, peering at the scene outside. He was some floors, maybe three or four, above the ground—the real ground, it seemed. What a surreal notion. But this was quickly swept aside when he met a pair of eyes in the alley just below—unfamiliar, but too precise. He inhaled and stepped back, throwing the curtains.

On edge, Alex paced the apartment. A clock on the wall ticked audibly. Minutes passed into the hour. He eventually wandered to the groceries on the counter and began to pack the fruits and vegetables into the fridge—a sparse fridge, quickly filled with more food than one man could eat. It seemed that the doctor intended to host him for a while.

Of course. Even assuming he had no ulterior motives for keeping Alex here, Haneul would have no intention of sending Alex home. No matter how good-hearted, the doctor was affiliated with Ground criminals, and a wrong word from Alex could condemn him to death. To earn his passage back to the Sky, Alex needed to earn the doctor's trust.

He began with a shower. It was easier to think when he felt physically like himself. He returned to the bedroom next, pulling the chair to the desk and searching for the foreign language dictionary he thought he had spotted. It was there—English to Korean, a bruised text, the corners soft and curling. He laid open the doctor's journal as well, stung with a faint guilt at intruding into the doctor's privacy. But he needed to understand what he was working with.

After a half-hour of trying to decipher the cursive characters and trying to match the repeating strokes to a word, he realized he had underestimated the complexity of the language. Putting the journal side, he reached for a printed Korean text instead, which turned out to be a poetic anthology. Soon, lost in the familiar tones of decoding, the hours slipped away.

A sound from the door interrupted his work. Alarmed, Alex slipped the dictionary and the anthology back onto the shelf and fished out an English book instead. Leaving that open on the desk, he went to the living room.

It was Haneul. He looked different from the night. His hair had been pulled back into a knot, and though his stubble retained his rough look, the rest of his face was bared and sharp, angled down as he read something on a handheld device. He held a small bag in his hand that carried a viciously tempting aroma. Alex's stomach growled.

The doctor looked up, then smiled.

"Been awake long?"

"Since eight," said Alex.

"Ah. Did you have some broth?"

Alex nodded. The doctor set the bag on the kitchen counter and eyed his emptied grocery bags.

"I put most of it in the refrigerator. I hope you don't mind."

"Oh? Thanks. I'm sorry about that. Emergency call this morning. Are you hungry? How are you feeling?"

Alex hesitated. The doctor spoke calmly, but his motions were faintly rushed. "A little hungry. The fever's down, I think..."

He trailed off as the doctor approached. A hand reached for his temple. Alex glanced down, feeling cool knuckles touch his forehead. He smelled copper and disinfectant.

"Faint," said Haneul. He dropped his hand and nodded toward the box he had removed from the bag and left on the counter. "I brought you some food. Have at least half if you can't stomach it all, okay? I have to get back down now, but I'll be back in the evening. You'll be okay up here?"

Alex nodded. Haneul flashed him a smile and turned. With his hair tied, the nape of his neck was bared—lightless. No Tag, like the Grounders from before. Remembering them, a chill swept Alex.

Haneul's hand was on the door knob when Alex stumbled forward. "Wait."

The doctor turned. Seeing his face, Alex's cheeks flushed. He suddenly felt ten years younger.

"Can I come with you? I can help. My mother was a doctor..."

"It's a bit of a mess down there. Too many people coming and going. And I'm afraid the  _estrellas_  haven't settled down yet. I don't want anything to happen while I'm with a patient."

Alex paused, then looked away.

"I understand."

Another pause.

"Sorry about this. There are some books in the bedroom, if you want to take a look..."

"Okay. Thank you."

The doctor scratched his head. "I'll see you later then."

Not for a while, as it turned out. That night, exhaustion lulled Alex to sleep before the doctor had returned. He took the couch since there was only one bed, and Haneul had appeared to sleep in a chair the night before. In the morning, he woke to the same thick bedsheets laid over him, but no man. The doctor had left a note for Alex this time though, scribbled in quick, fluid script. It was about his medication and bandage kit, and breakfast and lunch. The former had been set aside on the counter; the latter was left up to him with instructions for the stovetop.

Evening, the doctor returned while Alex was reading an old English play with an in-text Korean translation. His fingers hesitated on the pages, seeing the faint sheen of sweat over the doctor's brow and the shadows beneath his eyes. He averted his gaze when those eyes flickered to him.

"I see you've found Hansberry. How do you like it?"

Alex glanced at the book. He struggled to remember much of the content. "It's kept me busy."

Haneul set a bag onto the coffee table. "Hungry?"

Alex nodded.

The meal was mostly quiet. The doctor seemed tired. Discomfort pricked at Alex. He wanted to speak, but he was not sure where it was appropriate to begin the conversation. Maybe Haneul sensed this; after a final bite, he set his chopsticks over his boxed meal and sighed.

"You want to go home, I imagine."

Alex lowered his fork. His eyes fell to the rim of his box. "I understand if that's not possible right now," he said softly. "You've opened your home to me. You've made yourself vulnerable. I'm grateful. I'd never betray that, but I know you can't trust a man you've just met." He glanced up, catching the doctor's focused eyes for a brief moment. "I just..." He bit his lip. Looked down. "Yes."

Haneul sighed again. This time, Alex could hear the expanse of his chest.

"You're right. For a crime like this, anything you say to the Sky will be used to make a damn good example of us. Hard for me to risk this community, no matter how much I'd like to get you home." He shook his head. "But it's not just that. You're fair game as soon as you leave this clinic, and the guys after you have got more eyes and hands than even I know about. It's a long trip from here up, Alex. Gates are locked too. We'd have to get our hands on a falcon, and the  _estrellas_  have got a near monopoly on those."

Alex nodded. "I understand."

A pause.

"You okay?"

Alex nodded again. He felt eyes on him for a long time. When he peered up, Haneul stood, taking the boxes and utensils. Alex's gaze drifted to the closed curtains, old green with wear outdated in the Sky. Every detail in this place was painfully foreign, down to the sputters of the sink faucet as the doctor washed the utensils. Everything down to the soft echo of those footsteps, worn slippers on the tiled floor.

Moments later, the doctor returned to the coffee table. Alex turned to see a gray box in his hands. He frowned.

"Do you like board games?" said Haneul.

"I...haven't played in a while."

"Same here. This one's simple though. Ever heard of Baduk? Go?"

Alex shook his head.

Haneul sat across the table, removing the cover with a scattering of dust particles. Within was a lined grid board and two pouches. While he set this up and distributed the pouches, he said, "You place your pieces at these intersections. We'll take turns. One piece per turn. Objective is to control territory, like this." He made an arrangement with his stone pieces. "There are only two rules. Any piece that isn't directly connected to an open grid point, or isn't connected to a group of the same color that's connected to an open grid point, is off the board. And you can't make any moves that repeat an earlier position. How about it? Want to give it a shot?"

The doctor seemed eager. Alex cautiously picked out a black stone from his pouch. It was cold in his hand, even through the bandages. A board game here, now, felt distinctly out of place. But as he eyed the board, nineteen by nineteen, three hundred and sixty-one points, a familiar comfort echoed in the turning gears of his skull. He glanced at the doctor, then placed his piece.

Haneul grinned. He played white.

He said it was a simple game, but Alex quickly learned that the strategy was anything but. The simplicity of the rules and the size of the board created too many possibilities to calculate—no algorithm by which to win. Soon, caught between frustration and fascination, his peripheral thoughts slipped. With over seven dozen pieces on the board, he leaned over the coffee table, hands clasped around his ankles, peering intently at the grid while Haneul deliberated his next move. At last, the doctor hummed.

"You're better at this than I expected. Accomplishments considered and all."

Alex glanced up.

Haneul picked up a white piece. "I saw the news, Mr. Myeong. That's Korean, isn't it?"

Alex hesitated. "I believe so. But there isn't such a distinction in the Sky."

"Ah. Shame.  _Aleumdaun eon eoibnida_."

The syllables seemed woven by the softness of his voice. Goosebumps gently swept Alex. "What?"

Haneul only smiled. He placed his piece. "I win."

"What?" Alex frowned, leaning over the incomplete grid. "How can you tell?"

"We can play it out if you want."

His frown deepened. Minutes passed. At last, he blinked and sighed. "I see."

Haneul chuckled. "You can redeem yourself tomorrow if my schedule lets up."

Suddenly, Alex saw the shadows beneath his eyes again. That sheen of sweat had evaporated over the hour, but how he forgotten? The doctor had returned to this apartment appearing exhausted, and here Alex had sat, deliberating his moves at a self-absorbed leisure. A pang of guilt hit, though Alex did not know what to do or to say about it.

Haneul's expression softened.

"It's not much, I know. I'm sorry so little is in my control. But if there's anything I can do to make this more bearable for you, tell me. Okay?"

"That wasn't...I..." He frowned. "Why are you doing this for me?"

The doctor hesitated.

"I'm not looking for anything from you, Alex, if that's what you're thinking."

"Then?"

"Hm? I like this game. I just haven't had anyone to play it with for a while."

"You're keeping me from the others. You know who I am and that I have information they want. How long before they start making threats, if they haven't already? Or pull your supplies?"

"Alex, I'm not going to hand you over. You're safe—"

"I'm a stranger to you. I—you know I worked for the system that...that..."

What was he doing? Why was he saying this? He would turn the doctor, his only protector, against him. This was not the place or the time to test his limits. He knew it as well as he knew those eyes in the alley beyond these windows lurked for  _him_ , but for some reason, the words spilled anyway.

The doctor touched his arm.

"I know you're scared. Alex. Look at me."

Alex looked. Haneul smiled. It was one of those smiles meant as a gift, careful and selfless.

"Sky or not, you've got a very kind heart. It's pretty plain to see. After what they did to you, first thing you ask me is if  _I'm_ hurt." The doctor chuckled. "God knows how ugly our world is. Down here, up there. Yeah, I'm sure it's lovely in the Sky. But they rot easy. Not you. I'm not going to let anything happen to you, Alex. I still believe there's good in this world. So when I see it, I gotta keep it safe. You understand?"

He did not respond immediately, though soon, he did understand. It came in heavy pieces—in the glimpses of the gutter view beyond the curtain slivers. The mold in that concrete room, the scars on those faces. Hate and depravity hideous enough to murder his mother and pry out his nails. The smell of the chemicals and fumes, the poison that might have killed him had the doctor not been called in to save his life.  _God knows how ugly our world is._

But Alex frowned at the man in front of him, incapable of making another expression. He was feeling something he did not recognize. He was thinking something he could not quite distill. Then, as the doctor's speech replayed in his head, the weight of each syllable perfectly replicated, the word suddenly hit him. Beautiful.

His chest felt unbearably warm.

"Oh," said Alex.

Haneul lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"

This smile, curving these eyes. Alex quickly withdrew his own arm and looked away. "No, I...you think better of me than I deserve. But thank you." He clasped his hands together beneath the shadows of the coffee table. "Haneul."

There was a pause.

" _Haneul_."

Alex looked up. The lilt of the doctor's syllables was different. Not familiar by the common phonetics.

"Haneul?" he echoed gently.

"There you go.  _Aleumdaun._ "

" _Aleum_..."

"Beautiful," said Haneul. " _Aleumdaun_."  


	15. 15

The next morning, Alex woke to the front door closing gently. He blinked, drowsy in the warm, feverless comfort of Haneul's bed. He was alone again; that door was the sound of the doctor leaving for his clinic work. They had slept late last night and Haneul had insisted on taking the couch. Safer, he said. Alex hoped he had rested comfortably, for the hour on the table clock said he had certainly not rested long.

He spent the day picking the crumbs and scraps and hairs from the whole apartment floor, then wiping the oil and dirt from all the counters of the kitchen and the bathroom. When there was no more cleaning to be done, he returned to the books. Today it was only a thing to pass the time. The journal laid on the desk, vulnerable, but he'd lost the desire to rifle through its private pages since last night. 

It was seven in the evening when Haneul came back. Alex was preparing a meal—he wasn't a very experienced cook, but there was a Korean cookbook in the kitchen that he could vaguely decipher with a dictionary. He was cleaning the stove when the lock clicked, causing him to knock the spatula off the counter in his sudden turn. He was still ducked beneath the counter when he heard an emphatic hum.

"You cooked dinner?"

"I'd be wary about the taste," said Alex. He gestured toward the book on the counter. "Tried to follow that. I'm not sure how well I translated the instructions."

Haneul gave him a strange look. Alex turned away, noticing the wrapped bundle of white chrysanthemums in the doctor's hand. He was carrying a paper bag in the other hand.

"What are the flowers for?" said Alex.

"I'll tell you after we eat. You need a hand?"

Alex hesitated. "Can you...would you try a bite of this? I can't tell if I've seasoned it correctly."

The doctor set away his things and walked over to the kitchenette. Alex handed him a clean spoon, feeling heat rise to his cheeks at that amused smile. A thoughtful bite later, the doctor gestured a hand. "Pass me the vinegar."

Alex looked through the cabinet. The bottle which smelled like vinegar was labelled with a piece of white tape and black scrawl, barely legible from the fading. "This?"

"Mm."

After a dose and a stir, Haneul tried a second bite. He offered another spoonful to Alex next.

"How's this?"

Alex took it. "Better," he said after the bite. He smiled a little. "A lot better, actually."

Haneul grinned in response.

Later, after dinner was done and the dishes cleared, the doctor handed Alex the flowers. He sent Alex to the sink to transfer the small bouquet into a tall water glass. Alex rinsed the roots and stray leaves gently, thinking that white was such a deliberate color. He had an unlikely suspicion even before he returned to the living space. There, Haneul had just finished setting up a small table in the corner clearing of the room. A frame sat atop the table, and within it, a still photograph.

Alex stopped just behind the doctor.

"Where did you get this?" he said softly.

"I have a friend," said Haneul. He stood up. "I also had her send a message to your father to let him know you're safe." He paused while Alex set the flowers down. "My family believes that our souls can't leave this world until we know our loved ones are at peace with our passing. I'm not presuming to know anything about you, of course, but I heard it was her funeral yesterday. I thought..." He scratched his head, then stepped back. "Well, I've got some work to wrap up downstairs. I'll be back later."

Alex nodded. A moment later, the door shut.

Alone, Alex knelt before the small table. He traced the image past the framing glass, imagining that he could feel the warmth of his mother's smile. It was cold and polished. Newly bought.

He gripped the photo frame, unsteady. He pressed his head to the table edge. His vision blurred.

For a long time, he was quiet. The thoughts he had avoided to this point were difficult—impossible—to dissect at the sudden bidding of his mother's face, the safety and the peace. He was not sure when he stopped holding it all in. He was not sure when he calmed down either, or when, his head resting in his crossed arms before his mother, he began to slip away. He didn't hear the door open. Only when a hand touched his shoulder did he shift upright.

"You should rest," said Haneul.

Alex nodded. He slept deeply that night, dreamless.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Haneul allowed Alex to join him at the clinic. Dressed in nondescript clothes and a nurse's mask, he was to be passed off as a new worker from Sector 20. The distinction did not escape Alex: had Haneul intended for this to be a short-lived arrangement, it would have been easier to pose Alex as a visiting friend. Instead, it seemed that Alex had a new job—the contours, in fact, of a substantive life.

He was grateful. He didn't intend for it to be permanent, but following Haneul into the corridor lifted a weight of uncertainty from his shoulders. It was quickly replaced by a new weight though: the air of the unlit halls, cobwebs and yellowing cracks; the echoes of coughs and crying children, creaks in unoiled doors. Down one floor was the in-patient rooms, and here the corridor lights existed, but flickered weakly. Down another floor, ground floor, was the clinic itself. One glance at the small lobby revealed why Haneul worked such long hours: it was 6 A.M. on a Sunday, and the broken benches already hosted a dozen people.

"Mornings, we'll have our hands full," said Haneul. "The intersector transport runs a lazy schedule. People coming from across town are going to—"

"Doctor! Oh, Christ, doctor, you've got to see my son—"

"I was here first! Hey, lady—"

The woman pushed the interrupting man aside and plowed forward to Haneul.

"Doctor, my son, he's been screaming since the night—needs surgery, I think, but he's—" she clutched Haneul's arm and lowered her voice to a frantic whisper "—he's clean, you know, and we can't get him into the hospital. Please, they said it's appendicitis..."

"Where is he now?" said Haneul.

"Room—room A2, with your nurse."

"I'll be right there," said Haneul.

"Wait!" said the man from earlier. "That ain't right. I was the first one here. Been up with a bad sore all night—"

"I'll take you, sir," said a new voice.

Alex turned to see a woman. Dark eyes, dark hair tossed in a bun that strayed around her copper skin. A scar on her cheek and an accent on her tongue distinguished her a Grounder, but apart from this, there was not even the Tag upon her neck to mark her physically lesser against the Sky-made beauty of the upper. As expected, the man faltered upon seeing her and went quiet.

"Thanks, Maria."

That was Haneul. The woman he addressed as Maria gave the doctor a comfortable wink. She seemed to notice Alex's gaze and offered him a small smile before she led her patient away. His eyes lingered on her as she left, trying to decipher what was so familiar about this unfamiliar woman. He vaguely registered Haneul speaking to another clinic worker before the doctor called his name.

"Hm?" said Alex, turning back to him.

The doctor glanced between him and the hall Alex had been staring down. A faint curve pulled at his lips, contrary to the soft frown in his brow. "Now's not the best time to fall in love, Alex. We have work."

"Oh, no, I—I'm not—"

"Come on."

Alex closed his mouth and followed the doctor. Someone giggled, a sound disjointed from the atmosphere. 

In what appeared to be a supply room, they changed into surgical scrubs.

"You're okay with blood?" asked Haneul.

"Yes," said Alex. He shook out the apron that Haneul had tossed him, taking a moment to figure out where the laces tied. "The woman just now, she's a doctor too?"

"Maria?"

"Yes."

"She owns the clinic."

Alex paused, surprised. For some reason, he thought Haneul was the man in charge.

As if he'd heard the thought, Haneul glanced up from his dressing with a smile. "You thought it'd be me?"

"They called you in for me," said Alex, frowning. "And you made it sound like you were the one who brokered the deal with the...resistance?"

"I am. Maria's father started up this place. He was my mentor. Took me in when my old man died. Now this place belongs to her, but I owe as much to it as she does. We take care of it together."

Alex pulled on his gloves carefully. "Are you...together?"

Haneul had taken a tray and was beginning to collect tools and supplies from the cabinets. He paused at the question, glancing at Alex, who looked down and immediately regretted the intrusion. It wasn't his business. It especially wasn't his business to sound so hesitant. He could feel the flush in his cheeks.

There was a faint smile in the doctor's response. "Jealous?"

"N-no, I..."

"I'd understand. But I think she's out of your league, you know."

Embarrassed, he dropped his gaze to the ground. "No, you have the wrong idea..."

But what was the right idea? 

Confused and flustered, Alex tugged at the edges of his gloves as if to adjust them better; in fact, they were already perfectly in place. It was a horrible moment before a tray pushed gently against his chest. He took it and looked up.

The doctor smiled at him, kind again. "I'm kidding, Alex. And no, we're not together. Now let's go save a screaming boy."

Unsure of what to say or to feel, Alex trailed after him.

Inside room A2, a young man who appeared to be a clinic worker was monitoring a screen beside the patient. The patient was a young adolescent, palor in his skin down to the cloth over his hips. As soon as the doctor laid eyes on him, Alex felt the light humor dissipate. He instructed Alex to set the tray down in a new tone, a plain tone. The message was clear: it was no longer about anybody or anything except the child on the operating bed.

Alex was not expected to participate. He simple watched, memorizing the names of the archaic tools the doctor used, memorizing the role of the young assistant at his side. When there was no need to memorize anything, his gaze drifted to the doctor. The intensity of his focus could draw shivers. And his hands—the sure, precise motions—between the crimson and wet skin, Alex imagined that he glimpsed delicate straw. He held his own hands unconsciously, envisioning the bandages wrapped around his wounded fingers.

Later, when the operation was past its critical stage and Haneul had begun on the stitching, he sent the assistant to see to the other patients. Without looking up from his work, the doctor said, "Are you okay?"

"Yes," said Alex. He paused, looking over the unconscious boy. "Earlier...his mother said he was clean. He couldn't go to the hospital. What was she talking about?"

"His spine is clean," said Haneul. "He has no Tag. Without getting the implant, Grounders don't get registered in the system. That means no healthcare, no state education, no legal employment, no rights. They would have executed the parents for subversion if they brought him to the hospital, then collared him right up."

"You don't have a Tag either."

"No."

"They'd execute you too. Why the risk?"

Haneul paused to lace a wire in his stitching.

"We've got our suspicions about what the Tag does." He glanced at Alex. "What do you know?"

"It monitors. Carries an execution function in case of emergencies, but that can only be activated by the High Council." Alex paused. "I believe it does more, though. Based on the code I've seen, the complexity should go beyond simply monitoring. Maybe data collection? Data analysis too. It would be an effective research tool..."

Haneul tilted his head. "Maybe."

"What do you think it does?"

"Nothing humane," said Haneul. He opened his lips as if to continue. But after a moment, he shook his head. "Forget it. I figured you didn't know too much. Best if we kept it that way."

Alex frowned, not understanding.

"I did work on the System. External security, but still. If you hate the Tags so much, wouldn't you want to have the information I have? If not for the resistance that exists now, then maybe for a future one? Don't you...wouldn't you want a chance to get rid of the Tags for good?"

Haneul gave a half-smile. "Are you offering?"

"What? No. I just—I'm trying to understand you."

The doctor chuckled. He shook his head once, and did not speak again until he had finished the stitches on the boy's body. Cleaning his hands with a towelette, he gazed down at his patient's face for the first time since he had begun the operation.

"Down here, it's hard to tell how old anyone is. Ten, I'd bet. Looks fifteen, so ten."

The doctor was speaking softly. Alex stepped closer, until he too hovered within the operating lights. Haneul looked up at him, patient.

"You're asking me if I'd trade the world I have for a better one?"

"Wouldn't anyone?" said Alex.

"Well, what happens during the transaction?"

Alex hesitated. Haneul continued.

"What happens to the innocent people who get caught under the State as it's falling apart? The people like your mother? You? The Grounders who get executed when they get caught? Or the millions who die when the System breaks and the Ground revolts, and the Sky pulls everything it has to put us down?" The doctor shook his head. "I'm not the guy who gets to decide whether or not those lives are dispensable for some better world or grand ideals. I've got people with broken bones and families with sick children at my doorstep every day. They're the ones I've got to worry about."

"I understand that," said Alex. His chest stung to see the fatigue on the doctor's face. It was not even afternoon yet. "But  _this_ hurts you. It's obvious how much you give. You know it'll never be enough in a place like this. If you tell yourself that  _this_ must be your world, forever, then you...you're burning yourself to death."

Haneul examined Alex, who had just heard the tremor in his own voice.

"What would you have me do?"

"I...don't..."

He didn't know. He had foolishly protested without a solution. What could the doctor do differently? Hope, without reason? Or leave these people to suffer so that he could care a little less, burn a little slower? Or did Alex somehow fancy he could bring this man into the peace of the upper Sky? Even if such a thing were possible, he wouldn't come. Alex didn't need to read his journal to know that he wasn't that kind of person.

"Alex," Haneul said gently, "you come from a beautiful place. I know. And it must look like hell down here to you. But this is my home. And I don't mind fixing the roof every time it rains, even if I know it will never stop raining. Look." He looked to the boy on the bed, touching his forehead briefly. "I don't feel like I'm burning to death at all. I feel like I'm living well. As well as anyone can, really."

Alex turned away from the glaring operation lights.

"Alex?"

"It's nothing," he said quietly.  

They cleaned the patient and disposed of the bloodied cloths, and talked no more about the matter of the Sky and the Ground.

 

* * *

 

Several days later, Alex was sent to fetch medicine from the supply closet. It was then that he realized his premonition had been correct: the clinic was running low on Sky stock. The locked cabinet where the psychiatric medication and the advanced treatments were stored was barely a quarter full.

Back in the room where Haneul sewed up a woman's broken arm, Alex broached the subject.

"How long have they been withholding your stock?"

Haneul paused for a moment. "Technically, over a month. The  _estrellas_ make their runs when the opportunity comes up. We were due a restock last week."

The doctor stopped there, but the rest was obvious. It had been eleven days since Alex left the Sky. The men who killed his mother on midground had collected the wares that the clinic was promised. The resistance was withholding their supplies, and it was almost certainly because of Alex.

He was quiet most of the day, speaking only to answer the doctor's occasional question. It was not until their dinner in the apartment that he had deliberated his proposition thoroughly enough to speak.

"You said you have a friend. Someone who sent my father a message. Do they have network access?"

Haneul, who had been contently wolfing down his rice, swallowed and glanced up. "Mm. Why?"

"If I told your friend how to bypass midground and private security, and got them administrative access to BioSyn's manufacturing logs, would you have other...friends, who'd be willing to make the trip?"

The doctor set down his food and wiped his mouth. He was watching Alex with a strange look.

"Are you being serious?"

Alex averted his eyes to the rim of the table. He felt too exposed under the intensity of that gaze, and his thoughts were becoming distracted by the heat flushing his cheeks. He tried to refocus. "I know you need those supplies. But the people you're relying on to get them to you aren't good people. They're holding their own community hostage like this. If you can manage your own supply line, then you wouldn't need them anymore."

A pause. The doctor seemed to be thinking.

"Fair," he said eventually, "but I can't imagine how the logistics would work."

"You'd hit the manufacturing plants before the shipment," said Alex. "The security there is tighter, but that's because the manufacturing process is almost all automated. Less chance of running into people—no, if we do it right, there's almost no chance of running into people. You would be able to monitor the midground security and pull out before anyone showed up. Adjust the logs to make it look like nothing's out of place."

"That's some very advanced hacking you're talking about."

"Ninety percent of the security is network-based. That's my specialization." He hesitated, thinking of another reason for the frown in the doctor's brow. "I...I know you might not trust me enough to let me access the network just yet. But I could show your friend what to do in an offline platform. There are some tools on my personal domain that they would need. But I can give them the key."

Haneul frowned.

"You realize what you're offering?"

Alex nodded. Wanting the doctor to understand his intent was genuine, he derailed for a moment. "You...said you think I am a good person. Truth be told, I'm a selfish one. The whole concept of the Ground, it was all just theoretical to me. Easier to enjoy the Sky that way. But this... _this_ isn't right. I've seen it for myself now. It isn't." He inhaled, returning to the question. "I'm not offering—that is, I'm not suggesting anything dangerous. I know that messing with the State has repercussions the Ground can't deal with. But I don't want your patients and your clinic to suffer for me, not after everything you've done. It's just to get them the medication they need, Haneul. I want to help with that much."

It was quiet for a while.

Haneul eventually sighed. "We'd need a falcon to make this work. We'd need a place to  _keep_ a falcon and keep it safe, that's the real problem."

"No. We could take the Gates. Ghost the trail."

The doctor eyed Alex. After a moment, he picked up his chopsticks. "Let me think about it. You want to play some Baduk after dinner?"

Though no decision had been made, a grin edged into his lips. "Okay. Yes. I'd like that."

 

* * *

 

The next day, mid-afternoon, a dented truck rolled up the clinic. Alex was cleaning up a second-floor in-patient room when he glimpsed the vehicle outside the window. Curious, he paused to watch two men carry a large box out from the truck. A dark woman dressed in suspenders and a patchy green sweater followed them through the clinic doors.

Moments later, a nurse knocked on the door and said, "Doctor wants to see you downstairs."

Alex went.

Down in the lobby, he found Haneul speaking with the woman from the truck. She was sharp, eyes catching him as soon as he turned the corner. A wry smile cracked her lips as she ruffled her thick hair, and Alex had the sudden vivid impression of wintery fireplaces.

"So that's him," said the woman.

Haneul looked his way. "That's him," said the doctor.

Alex stopped beside him. "Hello."

Haneul touched his shoulder, an unexpectedly intimate gesture. Meanwhile, the woman crossed her arms, inspecting Alex with a sweep of her earthly eyes.

"Alex. This is the friend I mentioned."

The woman stuck out her hand.

"Name's Bennie. I heard you've got something to show me?" 


	16. 16

Late November, Saturday night, Alex clutched a mug of lukewarm coffee on a clinic bench. At 2 A.M., no patients lingered and most of the clinic staff had gone home or to their apartments on the third floor. The fluorescent lighting was off, leaving a single lamp to illuminate the lobby. It was enough light to read by, if he wished, but the book laying at his side could not hold his attention for more than a single line.

His only company was Maria, who had changed into sleepwear and a shawl some hours ago. She returned now from a trip to the bathroom, sitting beside him and laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you hungry?"

Alex shook his head. She kneaded gently at the tension in his back. It was not a new gesture: over the weeks, he had learned that Maria was generous with physical warmth, no exception for the Skyborn Alex.

"Relax," she said. "He'll be fine. I'm sure of it."

Haneul, she meant.

When Alex had offered to share with Bennie the security manipulation on midground, he had not thought that the doctor would be the one retrieving the supplies. It was a naive oversight; knowing Haneul, who already undertook the risks of going Tagless and running an illicit clinic, Alex should not have expected anything else. Though the task carried minimal risk in theory, it now felt like he was waiting on the results of a badly skewed gamble.

One mistake. One security trigger, one witness slipping beneath the monitors, one message conveyed too late or too wrong could cost Haneul his life. For all that Alex trusted in Bennie's wit and expertise, he would have given another round of fingernails to be the one behind the screens tonight. An impossible wish: there was no network access in the clinic and the resistance's unrelenting watch hounded the alleys still, keeping him locked inside. His only influence in the matter was a handheld phone link to Bennie, who would not be contacting him unless there was an emergency.

So he waited. It had been three hours. Outside, rain pelted the windows. A heavy storm was coming down from the Sky, keeping stray walkers indoors. It was why they had chosen tonight to make their move—yet the sound of the dirtied water assaulting the old glass only riled his nerves more.

Unconsciously, he scrapped the skin of his fingers against the cup in his hand. Maria eventually reached over and pulled the cup away from him.

"You really do need to calm down, sweetheart."

"I...sorry."

She smiled at him. A moment later, "Has he told you about where he came from?"

"No." Alex frowned. "It wasn't here?"

"Sector 4? No. He grew up in the Grays in Sector 31—that's about as rough as you can get down on the Ground, right on the outskirts. I've never been, but I hear the air's pretty bad there. The people who can afford to move inward do. The people who can't? They fight for the scraps of the poorest district." She paused, fingers falling idly to a knot on her shawl. "He was sixteen, I think, when he brought his dad over to us. Gang fight. His dad didn't make it, but we managed to convince him to stay. Now he's always holding a roll of bandages instead of a gun, but that Gray blood doesn't bleed out easy." She looked at Alex. "My point is, Alex, he's more than capable of taking care of himself. And that's not even saying anything about Bennie—she worked for the resistance before Albert took over, you know. She's got the sharpest blades on the Ground, and now she's got what you know. It's going to be fine."

He looked at the floor, briefly overwhelmed by the new information she had shared. In his mind's eye, he saw a young Haneul, bloodied and bruised with his father on his shoulders. They had spoken of family just a week ago—Haneul's mother had passed away in his early childhood. A sickness, he'd said. And if he had grown up in the place that Maria had described, it must have been a common, brutal loss to find himself alone in the world.

But she had said these things to ease his worry, not to stir up this sadness. Pulling up a smile, he thanked her.

Maria returned a warm grin. "You know, I was expecting a pretty Skyboy. Maybe a little spoiled. Certainly moody and angry from being holed up so far from home. But here you are, fretting over a criminal doctor and keeping company for his partner-in-crime with a smile like that."

"I would be dead or worse without you two," said Alex.

"Probably," said Maria, "but if this works out, then  _we'll_ be the profiteers."

_If._

And if it did not work out, Haneul would be executed.

"Oh," said Maria. "I didn't mean..." She trailed off. A moment later, her eyes were still upon him. "You really care about him, don't you?"

It was the softness of her words, coupled with the sharpness of her eyes. The heat flushed to his cheeks. "He saved my life."

Maria leaned back with a knowing smile. "He would have done that for anyone."

He looked at the floor, nodding.

"He's been spending a lot more money on greens and reds since you got here though. For a doctor, he's not good about keeping a balanced diet. But between that and the shaving, he's certainly been going out of his way."

"Shaving?"

Hanuel's facial hair was still often rugged. Never as unkempt as it was when they first met, but he'd assumed that had been an outlier. Was it propriety for a guest, then? Or...

"You haven't noticed? I guess he doesn't do a very thorough job with it. Speaking of, would you like a haircut? I have a friend I can ask to come around one of these weekends."

He touched his hair, still hung on her earlier words. He struggled to focus on her question and ended up nodding quietly.

"Did I make you uncomfortable?"

"No..."

A hand touched his arm. When he looked up, he found the humor in Maria's smile softened. "What I mean to say is thank you. For showing us the Sky's not as cold as we thought. And for..."

An engine purred just past the clinic doors. They turned. Words forgotten, Maria went to peek past the shut curtains. A moment later, she hurried to unlock the doors.

The winter air rushed in first. Alex winced at the cold, but that was a sensation soon forgotten as a familiar silhouette appeared beneath the streetlights. He was drenched head to toe, wet synthetic plastered to his body, his face hidden by a hood and a face mask. Only his eyes were visible, glancing first toward the approaching Maria.

Alex had not realized he had been worried to  _this_ extent—that the relief would stagger him, make it difficult to think as he stumbled forward. Beneath the rain, the two doctors lugged two large cases off the ground bike. Alex stepped aside to let them in. When the doors had shut out the cold night, Haneul turned toward him. His eyes all but glittered, and when he pulled off his hood and his mask, there waited an unreserved smile.

Breathless, he started to speak. "Christ. That was perfect. Alex—"

Unthinking, Alex rushed over and threw his arms around the doctor's shoulders. The chemical rain soaked into his sweater, barely noticeable against the feverish heat and racing pulse. He realized belatedly what he had done, but no embarrassment could pull him away at the moment. Haneul had gone to the Sky and returned untouched. He was safe.

Alex closed his eyes and tightened his grip.

A gloved hand touched his side, seeming to hesitate before it settled. But even as the gesture electrified his nerves, the hanging quiet returned to Alex his senses. He pulled away. He looked at the doctor.

"I'm glad you're safe."

Haneul paused. His lips parted to speak, but no words came.

It was Maria who eventually cut between them and tugged at the sitting cases. "Let's get these sorted out, boys.  _Then_ we can get soft over some drinks."

 

* * *

 

For a while, the new supply of Sky medications kept the atmosphere of the clinic vibrant. To be independent of the resistance was an uplifting freedom. But it was only a matter of time before word got back to the  _estrellas_ , and though Haneul assured Alex they'd dare not set an aggressive foot within the clinic, he'd made a new habit of keeping the front doors locked or otherwise manned by staff.

Early Wednesday morning, Alex was tending to an in-patient on the second floor, an older man recovering from intensive surgery. The man blinked open a pair of bleary eyes upon his entrance, expressionless at Alex's smile and greeting. Tired, perhaps, or still lulled by the painkillers in his system. Thinking nothing of it, Alex set the cleaning tray beside the man's bed.

"I'm just going to redress your bandages, sir. It won't take long."

No response. He reached for the sheets pooled over the man's side, where the surgical opening had been. His fingertips barely the fabric when a weathered hand knocked him aside.

Surprised, Alex glanced at the man. Cold eyes glared at him.

"I'm sorry, sir, I was just—"

"I know who you are," the man rasped. His upper lip curled, a pointed snarl. "Vulture."

The vitriol in the word stung. "I don't..."

"Don't touch me with your filthy hands."

Alex took a step back. A moment later, he turned and rushed out the door.

Back near the supply closet, a nurse named Joan was collecting a tray for another patient. Alex interrupted her, saying as calmly as he could, "203B needs a redressing. He wouldn't let me."

The nurse frowned at him. "Wouldn't let you?"

Alex looked away. "Did he...have a visitor recently?"

"His son came by yesterday. Did you do something to upset him?"

Alex shook his head. "I'm not sure."

The nurse sighed. "I'll take care of it. Here. This set's for 211."

He took her tray and tended to the patient in 211, who was too deeply medicated to interact with him. 209 was next, and this one needed treatment from the first floor supply closet. Alex made his way downstairs, trying not to think on the elderly man's words—but it was a fruitless effort, because worse came echoing from the lobby.

He paused in the hall as he heard the raised voice: a woman this time.

"I  _trusted_ you—with my life! My son's life!"

A murmur of voices. She was not alone.

"He'll get us killed," said a man. "Ya might mean well, doctor, but he's one of  _them_. And he's seen our faces, and he's seen our necks! If ya don't get rid of him, there ain't no saying what shit he'll bring down on us."

"Where is he right now?"

Alex stepped back into the shadow of the hall, his pulse racing. Instinct told him to retreat into the safety of Haneul's apartment, and his foot was on its heel. The next voice halted him.

"Probably tending to one of our sick," said the doctor. He sounded tired and irritated, his voice rising slightly to drown out the sudden wave of protests. "Don't you get the wrong idea now. That  _vulture_ is the reason you had medicine to take home to your husband yesterday, Guerra. Whoever the fuck fed you these rumors doesn't have a clue what they're talking about."

"But it's true? You've got one of  _them_ down here?"

"I've got someone who's been working his ass off to get you guys the treatment you need. And if you think—"

"But is he one of  _them?_ "

A pause.

"You can't trust them, doctor. And even if  _you_ think you can, you can't just bet all our lives on it."

"She's right," said a familiar voice. One of the nurses. "I'm sorry, doctor, but it's just too much of a risk. If I had known..."

"What? What would you have done?" A scoff. A tone sharper than Alex could remember hearing. "Get out if you're such a coward. And the rest of you—if you're so afraid of him, find another place. But don't you demand that I throw a good man out to die. I'd sooner hand this place over the Sky myself."

Closer to the hall, a quiet voice murmured, "He's gone fucking mad."

Indeed, Haneul had not chosen the right words to say. Even Alex could tell that the doctor had lost his cool. But to hear the people that he exhausted himself to serve insult him like so—to remember the sweat on his brow and the shadows beneath his eyes every night, the chemical rain soaking his clothes after a deadly trip to the Sky—Alex couldn't stomach it. He stepped out into the lobby.

"You're talking about me."

His words silenced the room. The near-dozen eyes turned toward him, hostile.  _Idiot_ , he cursed briefly. Too late.

"Alex, go back—"

"He's never bet your lives on his trust in me," said Alex to the struck lobby. "He knows I can't set foot outside of this clinic without being taken by the resistance. But even if I could, I swear to you, I would never bring any harm to this place. I—"

Something came hurling his way. He dodged. Something metal clanked against the wall behind him.

"Fucking liar."

"Wait, let's not—"

"Fucking  _leech_."

A hand clasped around his wrist. Frightened, he yanked back—but it was Haneul. The doctor pulled him away from the crowd, down the hall, up the stairwell. Nobody followed. Even so, their pace did not slow until the apartment door locked behind the doctor.

Alex stumbled forward, unable to face the other man.

"Are you okay?"

Alex nodded without turning. "I'm sorry. That wasn't very...I shouldn't have."

"No, you really shouldn't have."

He grit his teeth. His eyes stung. The lash of those ugly names, or the thought that he might have brought about a disaster for the clinic—he couldn't say which hurt more. "I'm sorry."

"It isn't your fault."

He was quiet. What was he to say to that? It was not his fault—he had no control over this course of events, not since they took him to the Ground. Still, it was  _because_ of his presence in the clinic that those men and women had looked at even the selfless doctor with such hideous doubt. Without words to express himself, Alex swallowed.

"Can you fix it?"

"I'm going to take care of the people who need my help. That's the only fixing I know how to do." A pause. "Will you be okay up here?"

Alex nodded. Haneul lingered. It was a while before the door opened, paused, shut.

Alone, Alex shut his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed. A brief suffocation: his eyes jerked open when a hand touched his shoulder.

"Look at me for a minute," said Haneul.

Alex blinked. He pressed away the unwelcomed moisture from his eyes before facing a soft frown. Haneul peered at his face for a moment, then breathed deeply.

"I should have known those bastards would pull this trick eventually," the doctor said. "They won't win. I'm not giving you up, whatever the hell those idiots think."

Alex shook his head. "You give them so much. I don't understand..."

Haneul cupped his cheek and caught his eyes. "They don't understand you either. They don't know a thing about you. So don't you listen to them, Alex. I won't."

Alex did not have a response at first. A moment later, the doctor suddenly dropped his hand and glanced away.

"Thank you," said Alex.

Haneul scratched his head, nodding. He left shortly after that, not to return until lunch time.

 

* * *

 

Hardly five, the clinic closed shop. Alex suspected it was to do with a dearth of visitors, particularly after the events of the morning. Maria came and joined them for dinner, wearing a smile on her face that reflected nothing of their troubles. They did not speak about it either; though Alex preferred to dissect his problems as soon as possible, there was little he could do with regard to this one, and so he kept his quiet.

As if it were a casual weekend, they spent the free hours of the evening watching a movie on the computer. It was surreal to experience such a thing without the massive, dynamic holographic screens of the Sky. He found it difficult to immerse himself in the plot when the medium was so archaic, and before the movie had ended, he'd fallen asleep on the couch.

When he woke, it was quiet. Maria was gone. A blanket had been arranged around his shoulders. In his peripheral, a shadow sat on the ground with his back to the couch—Haneul, writing.

"You looked comfortable," the doctor said after a moment. "I didn't want to wake you."

Alex peered over the man's shoulder. It was his journal, inked with that graceful, indecipherable scrawl. He watched, mesmerized, until a distinct dot marked the end of a sentence.

"I keep my thoughts here," said Haneul. He laid his pen between the opened pages. "There's not too much of a Korean community in this district. A decent one where I grew up—well, maybe not so decent. But they spoke and wrote the same. Here, you don't see many faces like mine. Easy to lose the language and the culture. So I try to retain a bit of it, like this."

Alex shifted off the couch to sit beside Haneul. The doctor glanced at him, then smiled faintly. Maybe it was the remnant of sleep, but for once Alex did not feel so embarrassed to stare. Haneul, for all the scars and asymmetry native to only the Ground, was the most distinctive face he had seen. Bones cut rough and hard, but features moulded gentle. Even now he had a look about his eyes, as if he was observing  _this_ world with the distant peace of another one.

"You have an accent," said Alex, curious.

"I learned English in adolescence. Not bad for a second language, no?"

Alex smiled. He glanced down at the journal in the doctor's lap and dared reach for its pages. He touched the script tentatively. "Would you be willing to teach me?"

No response. He looked up to see the doctor's eyes cast upon the page, his smile faded. But a moment later, those lips spread once more with a faint headshake. It was not a rejection—more like, perhaps, the dismissal of some private thought. Haneul touched the place where Alex's fingertips trailed, tapping at the scrawl.

"The components of a character come from Hangul. That's our alphabet. These two here, they make the word  _saengmyeong._ Life."

Alex leaned a little closer to the journal, inspecting the recent entry. Haneul allowed him his thoughtful silence. After a while, he pointed out a repetitive set of characters that seemed vaguely familiar.

"I."

He looked up to see Haneul watching him with an arched brow. "Nice guess.  _Naneun._ You're right."

Pleased, Alex turned back to the pages. Printed, he liked to think he could decipher a few simple sentences. But it was not so easy in Haneul's daunting cursive, and as tired as he was, he struggled to make a genuine effort. It was not long before he traced the lines only for the sake of touching the beautiful script. His fingers came across a dash. A small duo of characters, standing alone before the break of a new paragraph. The stroke of the second character swept past the line of the notebook, a striking elegance in the ink. Alex tapped it gently.

"What's this?"

A pause.

" _Cheonsa._ "

"What does it mean?"

Haneul didn't reply. When Alex looked toward him, the doctor hummed and closed his journal. "If you really want to learn the language, it's best we start from the alphabet. Let me grab some paper—unless you wanna head to bed soon?"

Alex sat up straight and shook his head. "Alphabet first."

The doctor gave him an odd look, and then chuckled as he ruffled his own hair.

As promised, he taught Alex the alphabet. In fact, Alex had distilled much of it weeks ago, but he feigned ignorance, preferring to hear the doctor's patient instruction. When it was time to sleep, the doctor sent him off with a song—a classic lullaby, he explained professorially, about a mountain rabbit and the moon. Even then, Alex knew the rough and gentle tune would echo in his memory for years.

 

* * *

 

Morning came. Alex woke to a late hour on the clock, momentarily confused that he had not been roused as usual by Haneul's knocking. He then recalled the events of yesterday and realized that the doctor probably meant for him to stay in the apartment. He closed his eyes again, chest heavy—until the sound of the creaking floorboards pushed him out of bed.

He tugged open the bedroom door. To his surprise, Haneul was in the living room, doing some kind of data work on his computer. The doctor turned at the sound of Alex's footsteps, appearing as unbothered as any morning.

"Slept well?"

"Why aren't you at the clinic?"

Haneul pressed a button. The computer screen went black. "I thought we could have breakfast together."

Alex frowned, not understanding. "What?"

"Come. I'll teach you a family recipe."

Before Alex could press him again, Haneul set him to fine slicing some cucumbers. This was a task that Alex was foreign to, and though he harbored suspicions about  _why_ the doctor chose this day, of all days, to make breakfast together, it would be a lie to say he wasn't happy about the prospect of such a mundane, familial activity. For the time, he pushed aside his questions and focused on the assignment he'd been given. Haneul narrated what he was doing in the background, explaining the sauce and vinegar flavoring he was stirring together, dropping a few Korean terms, interjecting some culinary history. He was filling the space of the conversation, Alex realized. Maybe avoiding any particular digression.

Still, it was nice to hear the doctor's voice.

At last, Haneul set four filled bowls atop the counter—two steaming, two chilled with ice cubes.

" _Kongnamul-bap_ and  _oi-naengguk_. Or soybean rice and cucumber soup, with some modifications. I appreciate your assistance, Mr. Myeong. Now, if you'd help me bring these over to the table...?"

They did. Seated, Haneul gestured to Alex. "You first."

Alex tried a bite of the chilled soup. To his surprise, the vivid tang all but melted on his tongue. "It's lovely."

Haneul ate a spoonful as well, humming. "Better than I remember."

"What's the occasion?"

The doctor chuckled. "Enjoy the food first. We'll talk when we're full."

So there was a conversation to be had. Though it unnerved Alex, he listened to Haneul, keeping his silence to savor the meal. It wasn't just a plate of seasoned tastes, after all. It was overtly intimate—something personal that Haneul had shared with him, made with him.

Afterward, Haneul insisted upon washing the dishes. Alex waited by the couch while he did so, picking nervously at the frays of his new sweater. Clothes—the doctor had bought fresh sets for him a few weeks ago. This one was his favorite, a deep forest green swath of thick synthetic wool.

Eventually, the faucet stopped running. Haneul made his way back to the living room. He leaned against the arm of the couch, sighing through a light smile.

"Come here, Alex."

Alex frowned. They were close already, and Haneul held nothing in his hands. Pulse rising, he rose and took the few small steps to where the doctor waited. He paused a polite pace away, but Haneul reached out. Took his arms, pulled him nearer yet. Alex lifted his eyes, finding the firewood pair achingly close. His thoughts scattered. He wanted just a bit more. A little closer. A little warmer.

But Haneul's gaze flickered, a frown etching for a fraction of a second.

"Do you want to go home?" he said.

Alex blinked in confusion. Haneul waited, eyes kind.

He thought he didn't need to think. Home. Somewhere he had longed for desperately, dreamed of all this time. He nodded. "Yes."

Haneul looked down. His hands loosened their hold.

It was only then that Alex realized what  _going home_ truly meant.

The doctor lifted his gaze, smiling again. "Okay. I'll take you home."

 


	17. 17

Late afternoon, Bennie drove by the clinic in her truck. She came to collect the boxes she had delivered weeks ago, the ones which had held disconnected network ports for Alex's hacking instructions. To the peering eye, nothing should appear out of the ordinary—nothing, except, perhaps, the doctor sliding into the truck with her, wearing a hooded coat.

For what felt like hours, Alex sat cramped in the pitch black, inhaling the scent of molding cardboard and ground dust. The plan was to drop Bennie off at her operative machine port first; from there she would give Haneul access to the Gates as she had during the supply heist. Each time the vehicle stopped, Alex held his breath, wondering if the resistance had discovered their smuggling. Each time, the pause was uneventful.

It was a monotony of blind tension, endless, torturous. His heart jolted when his weight shifted with the force of vertical motion. The truck back opened, no commotion. Someone tore open the flaps of the port box. In disbelief, he winced from the light—ugly and yellow, the fluorescent, blinding, _wonderful_ light of the Gate elevators. They had made it.  

Haneul gazed down at him.

"You okay there?"

Alex nodded. "That was..."

"Easy as anything," said Haneul. He hopped out of the truck, into the enclosed elevator, which was traveling toward midground now. With a hand outstretched toward Alex and a satisfied smile, the doctor said, "You'll be home soon."

Alex took his hand. He stumbled on unused legs and tightened his grip, not letting go of Haneul's hand even after he had regained his balance. The doctor said nothing, nor pulled away. With his free hand, he took out the handheld device which connected him to Bennie's directions. There was no signal within these walls, but they would need her update as soon as the elevator docked.

And when the elevator docked—was that goodbye?

The last time they would see each other?

Alex gazed at the doctor's profile, the crooked nose and the roughly kempt stubble, the cast of his eyes and the mess of his hair. Though it was unbearably difficult to do so, Alex withdrew his hand from the doctor's. Haneul looked at him.

"When we get to midground, you should head back."

Haneul frowned. "I'm seeing you to the rails."

"That's dangerous. It's not dark yet, and the walk to the station—"

"Is a long one. That's plenty of time for the  _estrellas_ to figure out you've gone and to track you down. You're not safe until you're on commute to the upper."

"But—"

"I'm coming."

Alex fell quiet. Beside the doctor's unyielding tone, his resolve crumbled. He was, selfishly, not ready to say goodbye.

Minutes passed. At last the elevator came to a halt. The doors slid open, revealing what Alex had once disdained as the intestinal mess of midground: a walkway to dull steel buildings and the hovering twines of gray pipelines. Today, it looked painfully polished—truly, the distinction of a separate world.

The truck stayed in the elevator, too worn to drive without attracting notice. Seconds after they stepped onto the walkway, Haneul's handheld vibrated. They walked in a hurry to reach the safely shadowed alleys as he checked the messages. Not far across the path, the doctor froze.

Alex followed his gaze to the far end's shadows. There, a falcon was docked. 

"Shit."

The vehicle was scraped. Old model, physically unmaintained. Even before the hooded man stepped out, Alex knew it was not of the Sky.

How?

Tailed the truck. It was hard to target men inside a vehicle, but out here, exposed...

The hooded man pulled a gun from beneath his coat. Alex had seen its sort before—the precision target weapons afforded to the State guard. Stolen as well, no doubt. It wasn't being brandished as an idle threat, and if the deliberate cock of the weapon didn't say enough, Haneul's quick maneuver to shield Alex certainly reinforced it.

"Damn it, doc," said the hooded man. His voice sounded horrifically familiar. "Didn't think you were this fucking stupid."

"Back off, Chavera."

"No can do. I let him go, I get us killed."

Haneul reached beneath his coat. He furnished a pistol, aimed in a practiced motion. "You don't, you get yourself killed."

"Oh?" The man chuckled. Unmistakable. It was him—the one who had tortured Alex. "You'd pull the trigger on your own, doc? For some pretty little bird? He that good of a fuck?"

Alex bristled. Haneul, unfazed, spoke quietly to him. "Count to three, then get on the ground."

He meant to fight. With weapons like this? On midground, under the security cameras?

"Wait—"

Too late. A shot rang out and Haneul lunged forward. Alex covered his head, dropping to the ground.

Bullets exploded around Alex—a chain of three before he lifted his head to see what was happening. His heart stopped. Haneul had closed the distance to the other man, hard hold locked on his opponent's weapon arm. Chavera kicked. Haneul grunted, lost his grip. Chavera pulled his gun back. The weapon took aim, and Alex opened his mouth to scream—but the doctor was faster. Pulled the trigger on his pistol. His opponent shouted in agony. Haneul tore the weapon from Chavera's wounded hand and threw it over the walkway rail.

Its owner growled, then barreled the doctor against the rail.

" _Fuck_ you, traitor—"

"Haneul!"

Chavera looked like he was trying to snap Haneul's spine over the rail. He was bigger than the doctor, veins on his unhooded face pulsing. Terrified, Alex looked around for a weapon, a rock, a stick, anything. But the walkway of midground was clean. He turned, resolved to pull Chavera off Haneul if he had to—heard a crack and a yell. Chavera collapsed to his knees.

Haneul aimed his pistol again. For a surreal moment, Alex watched the doctor's blank, cold face in horror. The shot rang. The man screamed.

Not lethal—leg wound. Alex breathed again.

Haneul pocketed his weapon.

"You'd better get back while you still can, bastard."

"I'll fucking kill you—I'll fucking  _kill_ you—"

Haneul ignored the wounded man and grabbed Alex. Wordless, he tugged them into a run away from the walkway, into the shadows of the midground alleys. Only when Chavera's curses faded beneath their footsteps did Alex realize the implication of those gunshots.

"Han—Haneul, no, the State guards—"

"He'll make it back fine on his good leg."

"No—Haneul, stop—" He tore out of the doctor's grasp, chest heaving. "I'm talking about you. Security be all over the area soon, and if they hard lock the Gates—you need to go back, now—"

"And leave you? If they send up others after him—"

"They wouldn't be  _stupid_ enough with the guards out!"

A sharp frown flashed across Haneul's brow. He grabbed Alex's arms. "You don't know  _what_ they would be stupid enough to do." He shook Alex once, roughly. "They tried to kill you. If he hadn't come alone, I..." His eyes flickered, scanning Alex's petrified expression. His grip loosened and his gaze lowered. "I promised I'd get you home safe," he said. " _Cheonsa_ , let me see this through."

What was that word? It sounded familiar. Intimate.

Alex covered the doctor's hand. Haneul looked up.

"I need you to get home safe too," he said to the doctor. "I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

Another flicker in that brow, softer. His eyes searched Alex's, still protesting.

So Alex released a breath. He leaned forward and kissed Haneul.

Rusted metal, rough along the edges, warmth like firewood. Their argument vanished. For a second Alex wondered if he had crossed the line—but a hand touched his face, as it had in that first blustered moment only yesterday morning. A gentle heat chased him back, as if, too, tasting his lips. Their moment hung suspended, isolated from their world—and as soon as it ended, as soon as Alex pulled away, he wondered if he had made a terrible mistake. If, in that small, simple apartment, he should have said no.  _I'll stay with you._

Haneul's hand slid along his cheek. His eyes blinked, then fell and closed again. He pressed their foreheads together.

"No," murmured the doctor.

Alex held his wrist gently. Swallowed and said, "We'll go back to the Gate. You'll take the elevator. I'll wait for the guards to arrive. They can keep me safe from here, Haneul."

A silent moment passed. Fingers curled loosely in his hair, a wordless, torn expression. Alex never did get around to taking Maria's offer for a haircut. No time.

At last, Haneul pulled away. He nodded once.

Alex smiled. Haneul spared him a hesitating glance before turning back the way they had come.

By the time they reached the walkway where the brawl had happened, Chavera and his falcon were gone. The guards had not arrived yet, but automated security would have set them well on their way by now. So when Haneul paused in the shadowed lane before the walkway, Alex did not let him linger long.

"You have to hurry," he said.

Haneul looked at Alex. His lips parted. Inhaled, but paused on his words.

"Go," said Alex, pleading.

The doctor stepped backward, an uneven rhythm on the metallic lane. At last, he turned away. Alex watched him hurry down the walkway, watched him pause to message Bennie before the elevator doors. Watched him step inside as they opened. Only then did the doctor turn, catching Alex's eyes one last time before the doors slid shut. 

Alex sighed, a soft gesture to smother the ache in his heart. He looked up at the Sky, blinking. 

_Breathe. Count to five._

He lowered his gaze to the elevator doors once more, watching the status lights flicker yellow for transit. He waited for the green, trying not to feel as if he had lost the first man he'd fallen for. They belonged in different worlds, after all. It was always meant to be this disparate between them. It was—

Red.

The status light had turned red.

"No," he whispered. He stumbled forward onto the walkway and ran for the doors, until his palms jarred against the shut metal, sliding desperately. "No, no no—no,  _please_ , don't—"

"Hands in the air! Step away from the Gate."

He whipped around. Eight pristine uniforms belonging to the State guard—armed, weapons aimed at him. He started toward them, forgetting that he was dressed as a Tagless Grounder.

"Wait, there's a mistake—"

"Hands in the air!"

"—listen to me, stop, listen—"

" _Hands!_ "

Alex sobbed, lifting his hands.

The nearest guard grabbed him. The rest continued toward the Gate, their weapons aimed toward the doors.

"Don't—don't hurt him, please—he saved my life, he's done nothing wrong—"

"Put him down."

"No! My name is Alexander Davis-Myeong, I am...a..."

Something pricked his throat. His pleas faded. His body slumped. His vision faded to a half-dozen sleek black shoes, enclosing on the doors of the Gate.    
  
  


* * *

 

Lavender.

The scent was dreamlike in its clarity, undiluted by the perpetual touch of smog that Alex had come to know so well. He opened his eyes, expecting flowers atop a familiar desk, aside books in bilingual script. Instead he was met with the foreign space of a polished room. A window that gazed upon glassy towers and the rich blue sky.

"Alex."

Alex turned his head. It was his father. Hair grown out, stubble unkempt, bags beneath his brimming eyes. Eugene Myeong sat on the bed and took Alex's hand. And then, as if the warmth of human contact made this all real, everything came rushing back.

"Oh, Alex, thank God, you're—"

Alex jolted upright. His vision blurred and spilled.

"No. No."

"Alex—?"

He grabbed his father's arm. "Dad, please—please, you have to help me, I—"

"Calm down, Alex. You're safe now. You're home—"

"No!"

His voice echoed harshly in the room. His father fell silent. Alex shut his eyes, clutching his head— _no_ , he needed to pull himself together. Time was running out, if it hadn't already. He inhaled. Exhaled. Turned to his father, who was frowning at him in worry.

"There was a man with me," said Alex. "A Grounder. Does the State have him now?"

"The Grounder? Yes, he's in custody. They're questioning him now. You don't need to worry about him. He won't be—"

He gripped his father's wrist. "He saved me. He's the one who brought me home. He's the one who's been protecting me from the people who killed mom. Dad, please, you have to stop them from hurting him. Please."

Eugene seemed at a loss for words. After a moment, he turned and rubbed his temple.

"I can speak with the Council, but..."

"But?"

"He's a Grounder without a Tag. And he somehow made it up to the Sky. That's not just a capital offense, you understand."

" _I_ got us up," said Alex. "I'll tell them whatever they want to know about how I did it. Please, dad. If—if there's any integrity to this State, they'll pardon him for saving my life. I wouldn't be here without him." A pause. Alex's composure began to slip. "Dad, they were trying to kill me. He fought them off for me. He risked his life for me. Please, don't let them hurt him. Please, I couldn't live with—"

His father sighed. "Okay. I'll pull the interrogation and see if I can talk the Council into giving him a pardon."

Alex threw his arms around his father's shoulders. "Thank you."

"I'll meet with the Council in person. It'll give me a better shot at convincing them. Will you be okay here?"

"Let me come with you—"

"No, Alex. I'll make a better case without you. And if they do insist on getting your account, at least you'll have some time to think through what to say." Eugene smiled. "You understand, son?"

Alex relented. His father gave him a tight embrace. A moment later, the door shut, leaving Alex to wait with his hands clasped tight.   
  
  


* * *

 

Hours passed. The sky dimmed toward evening. A tray of food came and left twice. Alex barely ate and barely heard the gentle scolding from the delivering nurse. He was making plans to leave the building and find Haneul himself when, at last, his father returned.

A smile greeted him, instantly restoring the oxygen to the room.

"Good news," said Eugene. "Your friend will be sent home unharmed."

Alex shivered. A moment later, he buried his face in his hands and began to cry.

His father hurried to his side and placed a hand on his back. "Alex? I thought this was what you wanted."

"It—it is. Oh, god. Thank you. Thank you so much."

Eugene smiled and sighed. "Not me. You'll want to thank the Regent who made the call. I'll give you his contact and you can send him a note later."

"Will there...will there be no consequences? For the doc—the Grounder?"

"None," said his father. "He'll be Tagged, of course, but it's a full pardon. He'll have monitored access to the lower Sky as well as a gesture of goodwill for what he did for you, so if you'd like, you can see him again."

Unbelievable. Alex pushed away his tears.

"Now? Can I see him now?"

"They're working on the Tag now. I believe they were planning to have him on the Ground as soon as the operation is complete. We might be able to catch him if we hurry..."

So they did, flying to the lower decks of an unfamiliar facility with a vast atrium lobby. At the information desk, his father questioned the clerk about where they might find the doctor. She was searching through her holoscreens when Alex spotted a familiar figure being escorted two floors up. His heart stopped. He rushed toward the atrium stairs, barely hearing the calls behind him.

The doctor had vanished by the time he made it to the third floor. Alex ran faster, until, breathless, he again sighted Haneul and his escorts heading toward a parking deck. The doctor appeared bruised. Tired. Head hanging, brow furrowed. But alive, as promised.

"Wait! Wait, Haneul!"

The doctor and his two escorts paused. One uniformed officer frowned at Alex.

"Sir? Can we help you?"

"Just—just a moment—" He staggered past the officer and stopped in front of Haneul, catching his breath. "Ha—Haneul, I..."

He had looked up. The doctor gazed down at him with a frown. Alex had been afraid of this moment the whole ride down from the upper Sky—of seeing the emotions in Haneul's eyes. Wondering if it would be loss, or defeat, or pain, or perhaps even regret. Instead, what met him was a strange, cutting tonelessness.

"I...just wanted to..."

_See you. Know you're okay._

But the frown on the doctor's face did not waver, and Alex slowly mirrored it.

"Haneul?"

"Who are you?"

Alex blinked, not understanding. "What? I'm...I'm sorry, I don't...you..."

No. Those eyes were detached. Utterly foreign.

"Ha...neul?"

The doctor's frown deepened. His lips parted to respond—but a uniformed guard nudged him forward, speaking politely impatient words that did not register. The doctor gave Alex a final glance, then walked away.

Alex staggered back. Watched him go. The last he saw of Haneul was the dot upon his spine—blue as the sky, blinding in its small, horrific light.

 


	18. 18

August, 2578.

The midday glitter of the Skyworld was radiant from the upper floors of CyberSec. Idle in the empty corridor, Alex pressed his fingertip to the glass, smearing a dust speck. He swept over tower tips, interrupted the flights of refined falcons. Summertime, temperature was always disjointed at windows, where it was caught between the heat of the sun and the overcompensating cold of the air conditioners.

"Mr. Myeong?"

He turned toward his name. A man at the end of the hall had emerged from his office, as tailored as ever. With a handsome smile, the director of the department brandished his door.

"Sorry about the wait. Come in."

So he did. Moments later, he was seated across a polished black desk. A plaque upon it read  _Willian Demari, Director of Development_. It was fresh, not even a year old, and yet it already sported a chip in the upper left corner. Curious. But irrelevant.

Folding his hands over his lap, Alex waited for the director to take his seat. Demari reclined with a sigh, forecasting that the conversation was not about to go as Alex had hoped it would.

"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

"Your preference," said Alex.

The director nodded. "Okay. I have your test results. The good news is that you didn't fail."

Alex turned his gaze toward the window. "I'm not cleared yet."

"No, I'm afraid not."

They were speaking of the team selection for the newest priority project—System Architecture 21. A hike in System-related security breaches over the past two years had prompted the department to assemble a team with a new objective, and Alex had been invited for his recent work with CyberSec Development and his senior year research on advanced encryption. But the screening process was not a simple matter of aptitude. This morning, Alex had taken a battery of psychological assessments spanning a total of four hours. He thought he had prepared well enough to cheat them—apparently, he was wrong.

"The System's a delicate State matter," said Demari. "It's imperative that we get our best architects on the new project. That's you, Mr. Myeong—experience aside, your work's been top tier. But your mental evaluation is too borderline for me to give you the clean pass."

Alex rubbed his temple in frustration. "Borderline? You make it sound like I'm crazy."

"Not at all. The criteria for tier one access is...stringent and particular, to say the least, especially for someone of your particular background. It has nothing to do with your sanity."

His background. His association with the Ground. Of course, he had expected this come up.

"Then what do I need to do?"

"I don't have the authority to sanction your participation in SA21. So I referred you and your screening results to the people who do." The director typed at his screen. A moment later, Alex's wrist buzzed with an incoming conn message. "I just forwarded you the location you'll be meeting at. That'll be six in the evening, today. He'll ask you a few questions and make a final call."

"He?"

"Vaughn Scio."

Alex knew that name. A Regent—a particular Regent. Any Regent was the worst kind of person to examine his psyche—too dangerous, too sharp, and too idealistically oppositional. But Vaughn Scio? That was the name his father had given him years ago. The one who'd pardoned Haneul—the  _thank you_ note he'd never sent.

Coincidence? Perhaps not.

"Thanks, Director. I'll try to convince him."

"Please do," said Demari. "And remember to dress well. First impressions do matter."

 

* * *

 

He flew home an hour before the specified meeting time, to a small apartment in the mid-uppers of Sector 4. Dress well—not a common habit, not when comfortable sweaters and soft joggers sufficed in his invisible line of work, but for once, he took the director's advice. Clothes scattered around his bedroom in his search for decent garments, shirts falling upon empty supplement bottles, socks hitting his secondary and tertiary research tablets. This room had seen no guests since his father helped him move in last year—no sunlight from the windows even, afraid as Alex was to give himself away.

Eventually, Alex decided upon an appropriately professional outfit. He washed, dressed, took care of his hair. Drained some water from the sink—then, out of pure habit, reached for the nutrient bars stacked in his cabinets. He stopped himself just before he tore open the packaging, remembering that his dinner would not be so rushed tonight. That was right—the Regent Scio had invited him to be dissected over a meal.

How generous.

At the designated hour, Alex arrived at The Canopy, which was a tower-top restaurant on a glass-domed deck. The server directed him to the far and private edge of the deck, where a man was already seated. Alex had not seen images of the Regent before, but he found nothing surprising about this man's appearance: neatly peppered hair, toned build and bold bones, clothes both simple and authentic. He sat with his arm loose over the table, his eyes gazing over the cityscape in comfortably lost thought—and this, to Alex, was the most intimidating note of all.

The server bowed and left well before they had reached the table. Alex continued on alone.

"Regent Scio?"

The man turned. His eyes landed on Alex. For a moment he was quiet. Then he smiled, rising, reaching out a hand.

"Mr. Myeong. A pleasure to meet you."

"Alex is fine."

"Alex. Please, take a seat."

They did. Scio began with pleasantries—hoped he didn't mind the choice of venue; had he been here before? No? It was a personal favorite for the Regent—he'd recommend the seafood, farmed fresh from the State's only clean seaport. And so Alex played along until they had placed their order, free of interruptions from the serving staff for a time.

"I was told you'd invited me for an assessment?" said Alex once the waiter was gone.

"I would prefer a conversation," said the Regent. "I've more or less made a decision already."

Alex lifted an eyebrow. "Not based upon my screening results, I hope?"

Scio chuckled. It was a warm, comfortable sound—humored, and not imposing at all. "Were they so bad? I haven't looked so carefully at them yet, I'll admit. But I suppose I'm not surprised."

Alex frowned. "What does that mean?"

"I remember you, you know. Well, not personally. It was your father who spoke with me about your situation some years ago. I believe you wanted a Grounder pardoned for the crime of evading the Tag because he had saved your life."

Alex reached for his water glass. "You were the one who pardoned him? Thank you for that." He drank.

Scio smiled faintly. His eyes were sharp, the gray lines cutting through Alex's veiled expression.

"It is very curious to me. Two years ago, you spent a month on the Ground. You owe your life to a Grounder, and you pled for him. His life was spared, yet because of you, he's been Tagged. And a year later, you publish award-winning research on advanced encryption as a part of your senior project. Now here you are, working for the Department of Cyber Security. A half-step away from a priority project on the System itself. IfI were to spin a dramatic tale out of this, I could say you have an ulterior motive that doesn't bode well for the integrity of the State."

"I see," said Alex. He paused for a time, gaze casting cityward. He had expected this conversation might take such a turn. With a contrived frown, he turned back to the Regent. "What else do you know about my time on the Ground?"

"Only what you reported."

"So not the details," said Alex. He tapped his water glass once, a gesture of involuntary tension. "When they first took me, they tortured me and laughed about it. They said they would spare me by killing me. They also threatened to rape me. And the ones who saved me? They kept me imprisoned. If it's Stockholm Syndrome you're concerned about, there's no need. The only Grounder I feel any empathy for is the man who brought me home. I asked for his pardon because it was the right thing to do. But even he said that the integrity of the System is what stands between peace and disaster, and he is more right than he realized." Alex looked toward the city once more. His practiced lines came more easily when he was not being pried apart by those intent eyes. "My time on the Ground was telling. I believe I know what the System does. That's what all these screenings are for, aren't they? To ensure that if we're told the truth, we'll still uphold our duty to the State."

Scio tilted his head ambivalently. "Go on."

"I believed it was atrocious at first. Even for the monsters who murdered my mother. I still think it's terrible. But our world would fall apart without it, wouldn't it? Until we come up with a better solution." He turned back to the Regent. "The Astrid Nnamani code must be the most powerful code in existence. So the better solution lies  _within_ it. I joined the Department to find that. I want to decrypt it. I want to understand it. And one day, when it's feasible, maybe we can create a better, kinder version of it."

Quiet.

At last, Scio looked away, shaking his head. "You speak with a lot of conviction. If it's an act, it's a clean one."

Alex bristled.

"What makes you think any of this is an act?"

"Caution. Experience."

"Experience?"

Scio waved a hand. "That's enough for now. I approve of your appointment."

Alex frowned. "Was that the decision you had made before hearing what I had to say?"

"Yes. But I can reverse it at any time, and I do have one condition."

"What is it?"

"We will meet monthly. You will give me your progress report in person."

Alex braced a hand against the cold, perspiring glass of his ice water. It was only to disguise the sweat that broken in his palms. "You don't trust me?"

"That's irrelevant to this condition, Alex."

He didn't quite understand. But he wasn't able to form a protest either. "That's fine, I suppose. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I look forward to working with you."

 

* * *

 

A meeting was held at eight in the following morning on the upper floor of Development Tower, in a sealed, private room filled by the undercurrents of apprehension and excitement. Eight were in attendance: an unfamiliar woman with the  _visitor_ tag, observing from a silent corner; the Director of Development, Willian Demari; the newly appointed project leader Judith Sancotte; and the five screened and approved project members, including Alex. He recognized three of the others—well-respected superiors who had over a decade of experience in the department. The fourth was younger, like himself, a woman by the name Ella Boutros. She smiled shyly and sat beside him.

It was Demari who took the opener.

"Congratulations and welcome, all of you, to the project team for SA21. I'm going to start you off with a caveat and a backdoor. If, by the end of this meeting, you feel uncomfortable with what has been said in this room, we would be happy to dial back time for you. That is, we can clear your memories of these next few hours and you can continue as if you've learned nothing new this morning."

Eyes darted toward each other, confused. They seemed to realize that the director was not playing with words. Someone crossed his arms tensely; another straightened her back.

"Needless to say," continued Demari, "everything we are about to tell you stays among the people in this room, regardless of what you decide by the end. Now onto business." He leaned forward, tapping a holocube. A projection appeared over the table then, horrifically familiar—the System Tree, looming in its bottomless domain. "As you all know, we've been having some troublesome breaches on our external security for the Tree's domain. They've been getting more and more advanced, and we're concerned that whoever we're dealing with has already gained access to the Tree's code. Astrid's our State lifeline—anything happens to her, chaos will break out. Our own security on the domain gates have kept it secure for about a century, but times are changing. We need to upgrade. That's what you're all here for. Does anyone know the history of the SA project line?"

"System Architecture," said one of the older men. "Started back after Nnamani's death. Each project targeted the internal code—mostly decrypting it. SA20 was discontinued about twenty years ago, no? The code's totally unreadable."

"Precisely," said Demari. "Anything we might have used to decipher the System, Nnamani destroyed in her late-life dementia. We haven't made any progress in a hundred years. So we haven't assembled you all here lightly. The experience and talent combined from the people in this room is maybe enough to rival the Nnamani team of the twenty-fifth century. We're starting simple—forget augmentation for now, forget literal decryption. Your first objective is to recreate the theoretical structure by which a system as complex as the Tree could feasibly run."

"You want to replace the Astrid Tree?" said the other older man.

Alex tapped his fingers over his lap unconsciously as he responded. "You would have to shut down the existing System to implement any peripheral System like it. The network computing space it takes up makes it impossible to run two Systems at once. But is that even possible? Shutting the Tree down?"

"Not yet," said Demari. "One of the Tree's primary security measures is that it cannot be shut down externally. And in any case, shutting down the existing System means giving the State a window for collapse. So our end goal is still to decrypt and augment the existing Tree. It's just that we've been trying to do that for a hundred years without allowing our architects to deconstruct the theoretical structure first. We've been working strictly backwards, and it hasn't worked. So we're trying something new.

"You might have been wondering why the screening process for your appointment to the project was so extensive. That's because if you're to recreate the theoretical structure, you need to understand what the System does in its entirety."

"It's not homeostatic regulation?" said an older woman.

"Homeostatic regulation?" said the young woman beside Alex, frowning.

"That's what we tell our senior architects," said Demari. "Most of you have probably suspected that a structure as complex as the System does more than simply monitor the comings and goings of the Tagged. That it regulates homeostasis as a means of averting rebellion was a more believable cover, though too close to the truth for us to reveal to the ordinary civilian."

"What is the truth, then?"

Demari stepped back. The woman with the visitor tag rose in the corner and stepped into the center. Older, paled golden hair, and cutting, rigid bones.

"This," said Demari, "is Noel Kanisorto of the High Council."

A Regent.

"The information you're about to hear is privy to only the Council and a small few members of our State departments. I will leave it to Regent Kanisorto to share it with you."

"Thank you, Will," said Kanisorto. She turned to the rest of the room with a faint, perfunctory smile. "As the director informed you all, you may choose whether or not you wish to remember what you will hear. We are able to provide to provide you with such an option because, in fact, memory modification has been a feasible science for over two hundred years."

The young woman at Alex's side looked at him. He gave her a glance, a moment to share the burden of her sudden and alarmed understanding.

"It was refined in Nnamani's time," continued the Regent, "and subsequently erased from common conversation. The System itself is designed around the memory manipulation techniques established in the twenty-fifth century. It's not advanced enough to read minds, of course. Instead, the System targets the Tagged memory whenever one of two threats occur: first, when the target exhibits physiological signs of subversive thought and behavior, and second, when the target exhibits physiological signs of suspecting the Tag's memory function. There appears to be a learning mechanism within the System code with regards to interpreting those physiological signals, since it functions far more accurately today than it did a hundred years ago."

"I understand that targeting memory is the most effective way of controlling behavior without  _directly_ controlling behavior," said a man, "but does that mean it...I mean, people can't possibly be walking around with memory blanks all the time and not  _do_ anything about it?"

"Correct. The System not only erases but modifies memory. It is impossible, with our current science, to erase specific elementsof memory. That is, particular people, or places, or notions. What the System instead does is twofold: it erases entire blocks of time that it deems threatening, and then stimulates the target's brain to fill that empty space in with its own natural mechanisms. Of course, two affected Grounders might meet up and share their false memories, and realize some inconsistencies—but if either of them ever suspect the function of the Tag, the cycle will repeat. In effect, the System is designed to perpetually correct its own mistakes until there are no mistakes to be suspected."

"But that..."

"Who could think of such a thing?"

"Astrid Nnamani, apparently."

Beside Alex, the young Miss Boutros had paled in silence.

Kanisorto's smile curved. "You speak with scorn, and that is only the reasonable human reaction. But keep in mind that at least system allows the Grounders to experience the full spectrum of human emotion without threatening the collapse of our State. A homeostatic regulatory system would be far worse, in my opinion. And a second Collapse? Unthinkable."

The room fell quiet.

"Who else knows?" said Alex.

The Regent turned her eyes to him. Sharp as Scio's, but colder, far colder—clinically chilled, the detachment of something not all human. "Those who need to know. And now, you, Mr. Myeong, if you'd like to keep it this way."

Eyes turned on him. He folded his hands over his lap.

"I would. Thank you for the honor."

To his left, Ella Boutros leaned away from him.

 

* * *

 

He was in a scratched cement room where the dust hung in thick, spidered webs. Up in the Sky, he only ever saw spiders in galleries, in files and films, but down here they dotted the whole span of the ceiling and dangled in specks of black and blood red. One of them landed on his shoulder, crawled down into the rags of his shirt, and he stared at the open end of his sleeve, waiting for it to come out, but it never did.

So he reached to pull off his shirt, but he couldn't because he was holding a pair of pliers.

He looked up. He stood before an operation table now, yellow lights flickering above a sleeping child. Broken trays of medical supplies laid beside him. The pliers in his hand hovered above his young patient. Confused, he stepped backward—and like a triggered mine, the child's white operation sheets began to drench with blood. The liquid spilled over the table and splashed against the ground, the sound deepening to thuds—thuds of organs. Words began to swirl in screeches, accusations of murder, pleas to save the child—screeches, horrific,  _vulture, leech_ —

"Give it here,  _cheonsa_."

It was the only voice he heard in the roar of the dream, burnt at the edges with the exactness of reality, grounded and full. He took the pliers from Alex's hand, and Alex was mesmerized by the details of his face. When he looked down at the sleeping child, the blood was gone. Alex fell into the dark of Haneul's shadow, eyes closing with serenity, and then he became ash.

_But no. This is not how it ends. There is no ending, not for_ —

The blood on Haneul's operation coat, dripping to the ground in a thick rivulet, pool around his feet. Alex watched in horror as Haneul dropped to his knees, and the blood crawled up his skin, writhed around his body, leaked in. And all around him were the faces of the Ground—the leering  _estrella_ , the accusing patients, the faithless nurses, the mother, the child, the impatient man—holding on desperately, desperately, too close. Their hands were rot to bones, nails chipped and sharp, and they clutched until they tore off his skin, and he screamed, but Alex couldn't hear a sound of it as he watched them rip him apart.

When it was only his head that was left whole, he turned to Alex. Sorrowful, bodiless, he asked,  _Who am I?_

 

* * *

 

Alex woke up gasping and chilled to the bone, but only for a moment before all his senses shut down. His mind kept running in terror, jarred by the nightmare and by the inexplicable state he was in. It was not until the field of his domain platform appeared that he realized what had happened.

He had fallen asleep in the network. His brain must have shut down after all the sleep he'd avoided with the supplemental pills. He must have—

Quickly, Alex disconnected from the network. He opened his eyes a moment later to the pitch black of his helmet, lungs gasping, heart pounding so roughly that his chest ached. He pulled the helmet off and looked around the room to test his vision, then moved his limbs to test their mobility.

Fine. He was fine.

He shut his eyes and dropped his head against the port seat, breathing until his pulse calmed. Slowly, pieces of the dream drifted back to him, then pieces of what he was doing before.

The System. The Tree. He was running new decoding algorithms on a segment of code he'd copied last month. After a year of theoretical work, the SA21 team had finally moved onto the Tree's code itself. And what a feat getting here had been: winning over CyberSec's attention with his university research, impressing his superiors daily after his feet were past the door, instigating false security breach after false security breach in order to push the Department in its current project direction—all so that he could make the team for a decryption endeavor. All so that he could dedicate his work hours to the same objective he'd spent sleepless nights on, so that he would have the insight and unwitting support of the brightest architects in the State.

But for what?

Alex laughed weakly among the whirring of his machines. He pressed a hand over his eyes. Shuddered—and choked back tears.

His algorithm had come back useless for the hundred thousandth time. Tomorrow marked one month before the new year: 2581. Four years since he watched the doctor leave, and he'd made not a shred of progress. The System was—untouchable. Its root code was wholly unreadable. Impossible. Just scrambled—nonsense. There was no data anywhere in the Sky that revealed how it was written, no algorithm that shed insight on its decryption, nothing,  _nothing._

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyelids and dug his fingers into his hair. His jaws hurt from the clench and his throat burned from the smothered scream.

Astrid Nnamani had the mind of a millennia, and not all the brilliance of their generation could match it.

He sobbed once, the echo of the doctor's horrible question wringing his heart. Blue flashed behind his eyelids, merciless dots executing him again, and again, and again. Living death itself.

_Haneul._

Mouthing his name, he remembered the elevator doors closing. Wanted to see him again.

Alex shook his head.

No, he wasn't at a dead end yet. If he couldn't figure out Nnamani's code, he would figure out Nnamani's mind—her life, her knowledge, her loves, her inspiration. He would become her if he needed to. He would find the answer.

Sitting upright, Alex reached for the water bottle beside the port. He downed the medicated liquid to the bottom, and then he picked up his helmet and rebooted the connection. The night wasn't over yet.


	19. 19

Two and a half years went.

Alex became as intimately familiar with Astrid Nnamani as her partner might have been. He knew her early childhood friends and favorite foods, that she preferred her lamb casserole cold and her broccoli unseasoned and boiled; he'd pried apart her doctoral thesis a dozen times forward and back; he could recite the name of every family member and friend in under thirty seconds. Every conspicuous fragment that he trailed led him to a dead end. Every note of inspiration turned up blank. His patience was nearing its limits now, frayed along the biography of a peculiar Marion Castel.

She had been Nnamani's last lover, for all of three decades until the creation of the Tree—following which they appeared to sever all contact. Alex well knew the primary reason he spent countless hours trying to deconstruct the Tree: it was for Haneul. For, one might say, love. In Castel he tried desperately to find a similar inspiration, but she had been a theoretical physicist, and the subject was to Alex like another language. Since March he had begun studying her work and deciphering her specialization with electromagnetism; it was now July of '81, and he felt no closer to an answer than August '78.

At the department, the project team suffered the same fate. SA21 hit the same immovable roadblocks as every System Architecture team of the past century, leaving its members to take up peripheral assignments to justify their time. For them there was no rush—a chip to their pride as architects, perhaps, but little more. For Alex, every moment lost meant a moment longer that the doctor would live as a fragment of himself. Spread thin across multiple projects, he resumed a habit of taking supplemental sleep pills and quick thirty-second meals.

His only reprieve came monthly, a mandatory hour, or two, or three spent with the Regent Scio. Sometimes it wouldn't be a dinner; sometimes, Vaughn—as he had insisted to be called—hosted their debriefs at theaters, or skating rinks, or shooting ranges, or painting classes—all manner of things. The first time had been jarring; the second time, irritating. But it seemed that the Regent genuinely enjoyed these unattached activities, and Alex soon picked up on his lead. His company was warm too, never as interrogatory as Alex had expected. In the past year, Alex had associated their meetings with a breath of air in a separate, simpler world. He looked forward to them—counted, sometimes, the days to them.

July 15th, they were scheduled to meet at a House of Blues in the lower Sky. Alex arranged himself to look not as if he had been living off pills and bars for the past month, and then flew his way down to a cheap establishment precariously close to midground. It was lightly populated, dim inside. Live jazz from—Alex blinked—men with blue lights upon their necks. A bar, some small tables, and then rows of larger tables covered in green felt, with colored balls rolling atop.

In the shadowed corner, Vaughn was arranging the balls in a triangular bracket. He looked different. Dressed down—cheaply, almost, as if he were anyone but a Regent hailing from the upper. Alex approached him, almost frowning.

"Interesting venue."

Vaughn turned. He grinned broadly. "Is it? My mother used to work here. Here," he handed Alex a simple tablet, "mark off what you'd like to eat and drink. They'll bring it by in a few minutes."

Alex scanned the menu and tapped some boxes. He handed it back shortly after, more curious about Vaughn's words.

"Your mother?"

"She was from the Ground. They permitted her to work here, and that was how she met my father on one of his inspections." He chuckled to himself, picking up one of two sticks lying by the table. "He came back for quite a few drinks after that. Do you know how to play?"

"I don't know what this is," said Alex.

Vaughn handed him a stick. Synthetic wood, it appeared, though weighted.

"This is a pool table. There's actually quite a variation of games, but why don't we start simple? See this white ball? This is the only ball your cue may touch. Like this." He bent over the table and angled his stick. A moment later, he sent the white ball scattering the triangle formation. "The goal is to get balls into these pockets. Except for the black one—that must be saved for last. When you miss a ball—that is, when it does not land in a pocket—it becomes your opponent's turn. Here, give it a shot."

Alex did. He miscalculated the weight of his stick and frowned as his shot went off-angle. It was a peripheral mistake, and before Vaughn could correct him or take his own turn, Alex spoke. "That's somewhat ironic."

"Hm?"

"Your mother must have been Tagged, no?"

"Yes." Vaughn leaned over the table again, taking his second shot. A violet ball fell into the pocket near Alex. Vaughn straightened for a pause. "There were moments, actually, when she would talk about these inconsistent memories. Not often. It happened more frequently in her later life. I had believed it to be a kind of dementia at first, but...well, we learn of the truth before we are appointed Regents of the State." A yellow ball landed; next a green. Alex wondered if the Regent was just showing off at this point.

"That didn't...change anything for you?"

At last, the white ball skewed the wrong angle.

"No," said Vaughn, setting his stick straight. He glanced at Alex, who had not hidden his expression of confusion and dismay. "Don't get me wrong now, Alex. My impression of the System certainly changed. Before it was this...hideous necessity for order and peace. But memories, those are a mark of humanity. The filter by which we view our lives and make our choices. To tamper with memory is inexcusable. But what could have changed for me?"

He paused. A waiter brought along their drinks, a polite nod baring the dotted back of his neck. When he was gone, Vaughn continued.

"My appointment went as proceeded. Do you know why I aspired to this position in the first place? It was because of the gulf between my mother and my father. The only way a man like me could do anything to close that gap was to have a power like the Council's. And that meant swallowing the truth."

Alex was quiet, forgetting it was his turn to play. Vaughn meanwhile took his drink. They had been speaking for years now—almost three. Vaughn's opinion of the System was not new; he had always purported to disdain its nature, yet accept its necessary effect, at least for now. Also not new was his general motivation for becoming a Regent: to direct the population toward a more equitable state in a nonviolent way. But family—family was intimate. He'd never spoken of the unintended love between his mother and his father before, a situation which reminded Alex all too much of the doctor.

"You must be wondering why nothing's changed in all these years I've been on the Council," said Vaughn.

Alex blinked. "Oh, no, I..."

"Here. Hold it like this."

The Regent stepped over, lifting the cue stick. His hands gently positioned Alex's, his body hovering close—a warm that was uncomfortably intimate, but not altogether unpleasant. Then a hand pressed his shoulder, bending him down. He felt a confused flush in his cheeks as Vaughn stepped away, and clumsily sent his white ball hitting the useless corner of his target ball.

Vaughn chuckled. "Better."

"This is my first time," mumbled Alex.

"I know." Vaughn eyed the table, then took his position, then sent a blue ball landing. He spoke all the while. "When we first met, you summed up my sentiments quite well. The System we have is atrocious, but to do without it as we are would mean chaos. Some—most—of the High Council believe that it is the optimal solution until our population and sustainability stabilize—that this way, at least, the Grounders are simply living as amnesiacs. And I do believe there are worse alternatives. It's just that finding  _better_ alternatives hasn't been as easy as I once imagined. And even if chaos itself isa better alternative, we've yet to figure out how to shut down the System."

"You could end the implantation of the Tags."

A red ball hit the corner of a pocket, not quite falling inside.

"We could," said Vaughn. "We wouldn't though. That vote would never pass."

"But if it were up to you? Alone?"

A pause. Vaughn looked at Alex for a long moment.

"I would reproportion the population of the Sky to the Ground," he said eventually. "That, I suppose, would be a manner of phasing out the Tag. There'd need to be a host of other policies to ensure the security of the State before we could start phasing the Tag out of the Ground itself. But that would come at a significant cost to the citizens of the Sky, and maybe to the sustainability of our species. It would never be approved by the current Council."

" _You're_ on the Council."

Vaughn stepped close again, his eyes on Alex. Suddenly, Alex realized the implication of his tone. But the Regent smiled, faintly and gently, and Alex was not as afraid as he ought to have been.

"Careful there. I am protected by my title. But if they have the faintest idea your knowledge of the System could be a threat to it, they  _will_ send you to Kindle."

Alex swallowed. "They? I thought you were the one assessing my fitness."

"I haven't been assessing you," Vaughn said simply. He tossed Alex's idle stick at him as he made distance again. "Thought you had figured that out after three years?"

Alex scratched his ear.

"I don't have many friends in my line of work," said the Regent. "It didn't seem like you did either. This worked out, didn't it?"

"I wouldn't have pegged myself as friend-material for you, Vaughn."

"No? I always thought you were interesting."

"I..."

A shadow with a tray approached their space. Alex trailed off. Meanwhile their waiter set down their ordered food on a small stand beside the game table, offering to bring seats. Vaughn conversed politely with him for a moment before the waiter nodded and vanished.

The Regent turned to Alex. "You were saying?"

Alex cleared his throat. Paused.

"No, nevermind. Thank you. My work absorbs me. If it weren't for these meetings...I would hardly have a moment to breathe. To enjoy my life, really."

"You don't enjoy your work?"

He started, suddenly nervous. "Oh—no—that isn't—"

Vaughn chuckled. "Relax. You're fine with me." He gestured to the food. "Why don't we bring this over to the table? We can start a new game after we eat."

So they did, and all the while Alex pondered what  _you're fine with me_ meant. That he could be honest without repercussions? Truly honest? He often verged on forgetting that he had secrets to hide—he let down his guard around this man, perhaps because the Regent had become his only friend. That might become dangerous one day.

But...not today.

Today, it was easy to indulge in the flavours of a cooked meal, the lull of sweet wine. To learn, however slowly, how to aim a cue stick. To enjoy, even, the warmth of human contact—a direction here and there, always verging on intimate. Intentional? And what if it was? What should he feel then?

What should he feel about the eight hit in the fourth game, a hand resting against his hip, a voice brushing his ear? That shiver in his spine and the heat in his cheeks? Curiosity, apprehension, guilt?

Distracted, he hit the cue ball at a straight angle. The collision with his target ball snapped hard, but to no avail—his target shot against the felt side and back, ending in the center of the table.

Vaughn straightened and laughed. "Are you thinking geometrically about this, Alex?"

Alex frowned, mind bothered and strewn. He sighed and rubbed his head. "Might have stopped thinking altogether."

"One more game," said Vaughn. "One more, and I'll let you leave."   
  


* * *

 

That night, lines of their conversation echoed in Alex's head between the intermittent moments of his focused research. Castel's advanced theories stretched out before him in a sprawl of network space, a wall of daunting trails that might lead to nowhere. It was hardly midnight yet. Already, Alex felt exhausted, the reprieve of his pool games with Vaughn quickly drying out. But no matter how impossible his current endeavor seemed or how tempting his recent memories seemed, he could not rest: Somewhere a few hundred meters below, Haneul waited, ripped of his memories.

Alex envisioned one thing whenever he was at his limits: hearing the doctor call him  _cheonsa_. In the past, he had not understood. But ever since the Ground had swallowed the doctor again, ever since Alex learned the meaning of this word, its weight had been unbearably heavy. All the pressure of the Sky and System felt featherlight by comparison.

So he persisted. Electromagnetism, Galilean invariance, gravitation—again, again, again, he digested the content of Castel's focal research. How did it relate to Astrid Nnamani's code? Did it?

_Don't get me wrong now, Alex._

But how?

Truly, did it?

Quarks and gluons, quantum chromodynamics...

_I always thought you were interesting._

Particle physics, gravitation, Kaluza-Klein theory...

_You don't enjoy your work?_

Not this—this mess of—theoretical dimensions of time and space—

_Are you thinking about this geometrically, Alex?_

He blinked.

Something caught in the folds of his mind. Unconscious processing too quick for him to unravel immediately.

His blood ran oddly under his skin, and his skin was either heating or cooling intensely. The only stability for his whirling thoughts was the pulse in his head, thunderous.

He stared at the 3D projection of the nearest document.

Then it clicked.

Everything:

Electromagnetism, but it wasn't just electromagnetism—it was electromagnetism and gravitation, unified in the Kaluza-Klein theory that echoed so frequently in Castel's work—a theory she had spent her own doctoral thesis trying to rebuild—a theory proposing a fifth dimension beyond time and space—a  _fifth_ dimension. An unproven abstraction in physics, yes, but in geometry, it was a perfectly feasible model. And Astrid Nnamani's great willow tree was mathematic, dynamic,  _geometric_.

Wholly unreadable. Because the script had been collapsed into 3D. The original code had been written in more dimensions than three.

Alex swept aside the research documents looming before him. He pulled up an indecipherable, stolen branch. With shaking hands, he cut into Nnamani's code for the millionth time, hope welling as it hadn't in years.   
  


* * *

 

Vaughn had been in love with Alex for a very long time.

He simply didn't realize it until August 17th, 2581.

In retrospect, it should have been the obvious inevitable from day one. For a man who felt so little for so few, who shaved off his emotions to abide by his goals, the young man in the cheap haircut had been a jarring experience. Years later, Vaughn still remembered the stray curl below Alex's left ear, just a touch longer than the asymmetrical right. He attributed this attention to detail to his usual memory, but perhaps that attribution was just denial.

After all, Alex was young enough to be of another world. After all, Alex was unattainable. It was the look in his eyes, the drive with which he threw himself into his work—the same unique force of  _something_ which enchanted Vaughn in the first place. The sharpness of his pauses, and the softness of his downcast glances in those moments. The conviction in his eyes despite the construction of his words. A composed, dangerous, and vulnerable paradox all at once.

He'd met Alex out of intrigue. He'd left that first dinner wanting to strip him to an unveiled core. When had it changed to wanting to keep him safe? From his own exhaustion, his overcommitment _,_ his little slip-ups in their conversations? That must have been the moment he fell.

But as of 8:48 of August 17th, Vaughn was still quite oblivious.

He was worried. 7:30, they had scheduled to meet at an upper Sky pottery. When Alex had not shown for an hour nor responded to his calls, Vaughn had tracked him down to his little apartment. He was before an undecorated door now, waiting for a response to his second set of knocks.

Nothing. But Alex's falcon was parked on his deck. A string of nightmarish scenarios ran through his head. His heart plummeted.

He tried again, louder and a little more frantically.

"Alex. Alex, are you—"

A beep. He stopped. The door opened meekly.

A pair of familiar, bleary eyes peeked out. "Vaughn?" A blink. Alex suddenly threw the door back, appearing more awake. "Oh—oh, I'm so sorry! I fell asleep and missed my alarm—um—" he looked toward his living space "—just give me—ten—no—five minutes, I'll be ready—"

"There's no rush. Are you..."

Alex looked back at Vaughn. Vaughn's voice trailed. He couldn't help it: the expression on Alex's face was still dazed with sleep, lines by his eyes, yet so unexpectedly, unadulteratedly relaxed. Happy.

"I'm okay," said Alex. "I'm sorry. I'd invite you inside, but it really isn't presentable. Five minutes, okay? I'll be right out."

Without another word, the man vanished inside his apartment.

He returned five minutes later, wearing a long-sleeved shirt even for the summertime, still smiling at the corners of his lips. He paused on the deck, glancing between the two falcons with an awfully endearing confusion. Vaughn chuckled, tapped his shoulder, and said, "I'll drive."

"Right," said Alex.

They climbed into his vehicle.

"Happy birthday, by the way," said Vaughn. "I was going to make you something at the pottery. But we've missed our appointment, so we'll have to improvise."

"What are you thinking?"

"How about a few drinks at Ollie's first? They sell cupcakes."

"Cupcakes? What is it about you and sugar on birthdays?"

Vaughn laughed. "That's how my mother always celebrated my birthday. I suppose the tradition's been trimmed out of the Sky. We're particular on avoiding unhealthy indulgences, aren't we? But exceptions should be made. It's a special day."

Alex hummed. "It is, isn't it?"

A curious comment. Vaughn glanced at him sidelong as they sped over the lanes. Began to ask a question, but held it back. He was somewhat afraid of the answer, and the night was far too early for such feelings.

They arrived at the bar in the central Sky, an anonymous pair among the dense population of the district. Only the barkeepers recognized Vaughn, who had been frequenting this place on and off for years. He explained his history with it to Alex, who chimed back with some memories about his early university years—before he was kidnapped to the Ground. He had been here once with his friends, friends who had fallen out of touch in his persistent obsession with work. Vaughn had escaped that fate by virtue of his status as a Regent—Alex could hardly stand up the most powerful man in the State, after all.

"But I come willingly now, I promise," Alex said.

"Oh? Prove it."

Alex lifted an eyebrow at him. Then he turned to the bar counter and tapped for the keeper. "I'll have another glass. Thank you." He turned back to Vaughn. "I can't lie when I'm drunk. My college friends have tested this."

"That's terribly dangerous, you know."

"Yes, but I trust you."

The words struck his heart. "I'm...glad you know that you can."

Alex only smiled. Vaughn watched, mesmerized, as he turned and took the refilled glass on the counter and drained it. He must have already been affected by the alcohol to have the daring to do such a thing—but the gesture stripped Vaughn of any words. He had the sudden compulsion to kiss this man.

"Wow," said Alex. "That's very...I haven't..."

Vaughn took his hands. "Let's get out of here."

"Ah—hmm?"

He smiled softly at Alex. "I want to take you somewhere. Come with me."

"Oh. Yes, okay."

He flew them out to the Imperial Tower. It was not a place he had ever taken Alex before. It was a building associated with the stringent masks of work, with the ugliness of the System and the cost of the Sky's great opulence. But within it was a high hall that overlooked the expanse of the State, nearly to the far coast. The weight of this view was brutally honest each time that Vaughn passed the windows, and with Alex's words echoing in his mind, he could not help but wish for the other man to see him. To see through his eyes. It would be his birthday gift.

Together, they walked into that empty hall, and paused. Vaughn waited as Alex's fingers slipped from his hand. Watched as he stumbled forward, lips parted at the towering view of the State. Nowhere else could a sight so expansive be seen. Nowhere else could one have simultaneously the impression of God, and the impression of humanity at its most fragile.

Alex didn't say anything for a while.

Eventually, "It's not quite what I expected."

"What did you expect?" said Vaughn, coming beside him by the glass.

"Something pristine, and proud, and beautiful."

Vaughn gazed over the cityscape. "You don't find it to be so?"

"You don't either."

Vaughn smiled, at peace.

Moments passed.

"May I ask you something Alex?"

"Hm?"

"What has you so happy today?"

Alex glanced at Vaughn. Grinned. It was laced with the ease of intoxication, yes, but it was still unbelievably genuine. Vaughn's heart ached to think that all this time, all those smiles he had drawn from Alex had been pale in comparison. That something else elicited this bright, unadulterated joy. And yet Vaughn was happy too—drunkenly happy, to see this man untethered by his usual exhaustion and composure.

"I figured it out," said Alex. He gazed toward the city. "The right thing to do. The answer to your question. The solution to both puzzles. Everything."

He turned toward Vaughn and grasped his hand.

"Thank you."

Vaughn didn't understand, not entirely. He only knew that by this gesture, by those words, that brilliant smile was for him. There was no precedent for what he felt—and that was when he realized he was in love.

He lifted his hand, watching those eyebrows draw. But Alex did not pull away, so Vaughn chanced a kiss. A delicate moment of impossibly soft contact, the sugar of his birthday cupcake still lingering faintly. And he could have sworn—he could have sworn—that Alex kissed him back. 

But then it was gone. Alex pulled away, looked away, covering his lips.

"No, I...don't..."

Vaughn lowered his hands to his sides. The sudden loss of warmth was disorienting.

"I'm sorry," said Alex. "I didn't mean...I shouldn't have..."

"There's someone else," said Vaughn, at last voicing what he had long suspected.

Alex looked up, eyes wide, afraid. "What? No, that isn't..."

Vaughn smiled briefly, then turned away. "It's fine. Come on. I'll take you home."


	20. 20

Alex had been right about the Nnamani code.

By mid-August, he had unscrambled the first line of script by reverting a five-dimension geometric compression to its original three-dimensional state. A program which could be read could be dismantled, and though the full script would take months to decipher, years to undo, that pivotal success intoxicated him to the point of slipping on his feet.

Sunday morning, he remembered what he had said to Vaughn. The warmth of his presence had been alluring, stability among these years of desperation and uncertainty. The taste of his lips, the security of his hands—how easily Alex had fallen, if only for a moment. Regret harrowed him through the week, thinking of the disappointment in those generous eyes.

Wednesday, Demari stopped by the kitchenette while Alex was stirring some warm tea. The director kept tabs on him often, not out of suspicion, but concern. His appointment to the highest post of CyberSec Development had been determined by the Assembly vote—of which Alex's father played no small role. Old friends, those two. Which made him partial to Alex by proxy, sometimes a little more than Alex was comfortable with.

This day, the director stirred his coffee with a keen eye on Alex.

"Are you working on anything important at the moment?" he said out of the blue.

Alex looked up from the timer on the tea boil. His mind scrambled to come up with a rationale for the question and an appropriate response. "Just some debugging for Melbon. Do you need something, sir?"

"Take the rest of the day off."

Alex blinked. His eyes slid to the digital numbers on the nearby wall. 1:16—early.

"Sir?"

"You've got a temperature. Haven't you noticed? I can tell just by looking at you."

Alex touched his forehead. True, he had been feeling peculiar today, but as far as his fingertips could tell, he was simply a bit warmer than usual. A product of body-wide heat, perhaps, making abnormalities difficult to distinguish. "I think I'm okay."

"Go home," said Demari, crossing his arms. "Even if it's not a fever, you look like you could use the rest." He paused. "When was your last check-up with the doctor?"

"First weekend of the month."

"Nothing out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing, sir."

Demari sighed. "You know, Alex, you put yourself together well. But I know what fatigue looks like, and while I'm glad to hear it's not medical, I need you to take better care of yourself. It's been showing this past month. I'm worried, you know."

Alex nodded. In fact, this past month had been his best in years—but in his absorption with the successful decryptions, he had perhaps neglected to hide the stray hairs and shadowed eyes and distracted stares as well as usual. Still, he needed to keep the director at arm's length, no matter the man's good intentions. "I suppose I've been feeling a little more desperate lately. I'm sorry that it's affected my work..."

"Your work is fine," said Demari. "We didn't expect to be any farther than we are at this point in the project. There are still two more years before we hit the reassessment cap. So I need you to focus on your health for now, okay? I can't have you burning out before you've made Senior."

There was a lightness to his tone, a genuine smile. Alex mirrored it faintly and nodded.

"Thank you, sir. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

He spent the remainder of the day parsing through a segment of the Nnamani root code at home, until, evening time, a headache pulled him out of the network. It was a fever after all: curious, as he hadn't been ill in years despite his neglect. But his thoughts had been a mess for days since that night in Imperial Tower, and he couldn't get his words, that kiss, all those implications out of his head.

He called in the next day and slept off the fever. Friday, he was better. That evening, he sent a message to Vaughn.

_Do you have time for dinner tonight?_

The Regent responded within a minute.  _6:30?_

_That works. Canopy?_

A longer pause.

_How about my place? Arleon 999 S1D8._

Alex hesitated only a moment before responding,  _Okay_.

To be courteous, he purchased some dessert from an uncommon pastry store in the commercial center. Half past six, he landed on the high deck of Arleon Tower, a luxury residence near the center of the state. Vaughn greeted him at the door, smiling as if nothing had transpired the past weekend. So with stilted ease Alex took in his pristine residence, everything as polished as one would expect: simple, not extravagant, but authentic and rich. He had an aquarium of beautiful goldfish, and those were perhaps the most flourished things he presented.

They took dinner to the patio deck because the weather was pleasant. Vaughn had cooked a light meal vivid with fresh vegetables, with a side of creamy tenderloins if Alex wanted anything heavier. His mother taught him to cook, he said. It became a favorite pastime in his youth—may Alex reap the benefit of it tonight. And thanks for the mazarin pastries—a personal favorite, how did he know? Oh, lucky guess? Must have been a touch of fate.

They both fell silent after that.

"This is lovely," said Alex after a bite of the stir.

"A modified family recipe," said Vaughn.

Another silence.

"Vaughn, I—"

"Listen, Alex—"

They paused at the same time. After a moment, Vaughn lifted his hand toward his head, then awkwardly dropped it again. "You first," he said.

But Alex had forgotten what he had meant to say. And with the tone of the conversation inevitably tense, he scrambled to find better words that what he remembered. Vaughn, at least, was patient. The Regent didn't so much as lift his fork while he waited. Alex's gaze drifted down to his meal, which tasted of intricately layered spices and cautiously sauteed elements—a caring, deliberate gift for his guest.

"I'm not really sure how it turned out to be this way," said Alex, "considering all the...institutional gaps between us. But you're the closest friend I have." A truth: since returning from the Ground in '78, Alex had fallen out of touch with the friends of his youth. Aside from the mandated meetings with Vaughn, he'd no time to make other deep connections. But even beside the matters of circumstance, many things about the Regent drew Alex. His resolve and layered perspective. His love for the little pleasures of life. His eerie, and yet unthreatening, awareness. "I'm sorry that I couldn't distinguish our relationship that night. I shouldn't have..." He sighed. "It was selfish of me. But I don't want to lose what we have, Vaughn."

The man was quiet.

Alex looked down at his meal. "I suppose I'm still being selfish."

"No," said Vaughn. "I understand." He picked at his food, speaking in a tone that could be mistaken for humored. "Relatively, I'm an old man. And politically dangerous, at that. The Council's not a place to find a stable lover."

"No," Alex said hurriedly, watching him take a bite. "You're wonderful. Generous, and inspiring, and..." He bit his lip. Where was he going with this? "I'm just married to my work."

"Your work," Vaughn echoed softly.

A chill ran down Alex's spine. He swallowed.

"That night," he said, hiding nerves, "you said there might be someone else. What makes you think that?"

Vaughn lowered his head, rubbing the peppering bristles slowly. He sighed after a moment.

"A slip of the tongue. Forget it happened. All of it."

"All of it?"

"I'd prefer not to lose you altogether because I misinterpreted a moment. So let's stay friends." He glanced up briefly. "I don't know what I was thinking either. Even if you'd felt the same way, that kind of relationship can fall out at any moment, no? You're right. We shouldn't risk it."

This was not the outcome of the conversation that Alex had expected. And yet it was the best he could have hoped for—a mutual, comfortable agreement. Or was it only so on the surface? Was Vaughn, for Alex's sake, faking the resolution in his voice? But even knowing that possibility, the words swelled up relief and warmth in his chest.

"Thank you," said Alex.

"Eat," said Vaughn, picking up his fork. "The food is getting cold."   
  
  


* * *

 

A September night, in a windowless room with yellowing walls, Harriet Louman sat logging a half-dozen stacks of newly stolen medication. In rhythmic obedience she counted the bottles and boxes, passing each set off to the half-blind woman who stored them in their appropriate places. Every so often, when she could spare it, she'd glance up at the corner of the medical storeroom, where a woman and a man were speaking quietly.

Her name was Maria. His name was Haneul. She wore a thin shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, and him, tired shadows beneath his eyes. At last he sighed at something she said, and rubbing the scarf around his neck, turned to leave the room. No blue light could be seen, but Harriet would never forget the first time she'd spotted the doctor's bare nape. It was only a week ago, a slip of the hand.

"Persistent bastard," mumbled Maria, coming to aid their sorting. "I swear, it costs me a day's worth of energy to persuade him to rest these days."

"You know he can't help it," said the woman with the scarred eye. "It's all that keeps him going."

Maria only sighed.

On the floor, Harriet scribbled  _42_ beside the name of a psychiatric med unique to the Sky. Sliding the pile of boxes toward the shelving heap, she said as if it was idle chatter, "It's a little unbelievable, honestly."

"Hm?"

"He's patching up illegals with stolen meds with a Tag on his spine.  _I_ can't even process that." Harriet started on a bag of bottled tabs. "Not that I know exactly how the tech works, but I'm pretty sure that shouldn't be possible."

"It's just some memory interference," said Maria, shrugging. "Far as we know, anyway. Doesn't change who he is or what he cares about. Pass me the CK12, Livia?"

It was an act. Harriet had been sent to infiltrate the Ground with full knowledge of the System's truth. If the Tag functioned on Haneul as it should, he should have no drive or means to thieve from the Sky. To heal these Tagless criminals.

Maria was feigning the nonchalance, veiling the secret. Not likely because she suspected Harriet, or else they would have never shown her the stolen stocks. No, Harriet's six months on the ground had ingratiated her in their good graces well enough. Maria was lying for some other reason—denial? Protection? Ignorance?

Harriet sighed quietly and continued counting bottles. In time, she would know the truth.

Time came a month later, a weekend when a district-wide shooting bore down the clinic with exhaustive work. Third morning after the shooting, Haneul fell asleep at a bench, waiting by a lone, stabilized patient. His arms were crossed. His head held straight. To anyone less observant, it would have seemed he'd merely closed his eyes.

Indeed he was a persistent man—had been from the moment Harriet met him. Didn't rest a blink as long as there was work to be done. That perpetually fevered fire in his eyes was hidden by his lids now, and Harriet took the opportunity to rifle through the emergency medical supply in the operation room. With no one conscious in sight, she injected the doctor with a sedative. Tossed the evidence, and prepared to drag Haneul to his bedroom.

A few nurses passed. Harriet calmed their worries with a smile, saying the doctor was only tired and needed to rest. Haneul stumbled along, roused by the movement but kept unconscious by the injection. Eventually, they reached his apartment, where Harriet fished his keys out of his pockets.

The living room was untelling. Neatly stacked boxes, plants on the counter. Marked calendar with old landscape images on the wall, two coffee cups on the tea table.

The bedroom—this could be worth more than capturing that clever blade Bennie. A finger-coded lock had been installed here, edging her curiosity. When she stepped inside at last, she dropped Haneul on the floor. The doctor mumbled softly, but Harriet was enraptured by the wall.

Illegible notes and images sprawled across three sides. Illegible because the script was written in Korean—but the central characters were bold and clear, meant to be seen at a glimpse. Arrows danced from plastered page to plastered page, like some intricate decision tree game. No doubt it had to do with the Tag—those hanging photographs, like proof of memories, suggested nothing else. But why the complexity, the arrows? Different steps for different memory states? Or directions toward a particular memory state, a middling one that didn't trigger the System to act?

To do this to himself, to let his mind be shredded over and over and  _know_ of it, relearn it, to live on that constant emotional peak...a man would have to be mad. How did he not lose himself? Or had he already? But even insane, the doctor continued his subversive work, thieving from the Sky and undermining the System.

Still, as long as Harriet didn't know what the foreign words read, all of this was speculation. But if she was right, Harriet was staring at a skyrocket promotion. That trail of leads beginning with the midground security hacks would have led her to uncover one of the greatest threats to the System integrity.

Hands shaking, Harriet reached into her hidden inner pocket. She pulled out an archaic camera and took five quick snapshots of the room. Stepped over Haneul's body and rifled through the dense shelf of books—note books. All in Korean.

"Haneul?"

Harriet shoved the camera back into her pocket. In a rush, she pulled the unconscious Haneul onto his bed. Just as he hit the mattress, a familiar young man stepped into the room. Dressed down, smelling of soap—he must have been in the bathroom.

His dark eyes narrowed quickly. "Alice? What are you doing here?"

Harriet gestured to Haneul. "Was just getting him to bed. He's exhausted. Could barely walk."

The man's eyes darted to the doctor. Silence passed.

"Is that so."

"I'll leave him to you now," said Harriet, making to leave. She wasn't stopped.

Outside, Harriet grabbed her jacket and equipment from her own apartment, then took the backdoor out. She waited until she was well outside the clinic range, in the shelter of some alley shadows, before she made her call to the Sky.

"Agama reporting. 918 cetroporin."

" _Liversrot 809. Confirmed, agent._ "

"I've hit objective 2B. But my position might be compromised. Permission to move on target?"

" _Hold, agama_."

There was a pause. Harriet tapped her fingers impatiently. At last:

" _You are to return to headquarters. Good work, agent. We'll clean things up from here._ "

The call ended.

Flexing her fingers, Harriet turned to the slit view of the Ground between the walls of the thin valley. A smothered place with smothered people. Pity welled for a moment.

Only a moment. She pulled her hood over her head. Obscured by the shadows, she hurried for the elevators, hoping that her next assignment would be well within the comfort of the upper Sky.


	21. 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This is a double update! Make sure you read ch 20 first :)

The remaining months of 2581 passed in the obscure way of negligible work years. CyberSec Investigation handed Alex a support role in their cybercrime division, targeting high profile upper Sky cases—mostly white collar transgressions, rarely life-threatening. Perhaps it was all these years double-dealing the State, but Alex found himself quite adept at criminal investigation. More often than not, his seniors took credit for his work, convincing others that the architect was too preoccupied with building code to solve crimes; he didn't mind this, preferring to stay in the shadows while he worked, by night, on a program to counteract the System.

By February of the next year, he had groomed through the full code of the Astrid Tree. It was more complex than he had anticipated, even given the five-dimensional nature of its readability. He was staggered to come up with a way to even temporarily disable a single Tag without killing the Tagged, but then CyberSec began floating rumors of investigating midground security hacks. Afraid it was related to Bennie or Haneul, or both, Alex did anything he could think of: he constructed a redacted model of the Tree within his own private domain, and by spring of '82, he was running a dozen different trials on it a week.

Processing speed turned out to be an issue. April, he burned his income to purchase an apartment closer to the upper Imperial, where the network hardware was based. He upgraded his machine as well, until it ran only a fraction slower than the highest tier equipment housed in the towers of CyberSec.

April, the exhaustion also weighed heavier. He ate quick bars instead of meals, tabs instead of sleeping. Pilled supplements governed his life, except when he needed to hide them. He was careful about his doctor's visits, who fortunately dismissed his symptoms as an incurable case of insomnia. He was more careful about his monthly meet-ups with Vaughn. At least those had resumed the old normalcy, never once mentioning that uncomfortable night on his birthday; the only difference, it seemed, was that Alex ended up spending more time at the Regent's house than outing elsewhere.

One morning, he woke up in a bed far softer than his own, smelling of rose mint. It had been so long since he'd the luxury to dream that he mistook this reality for a dream. Only after he'd crawled out of the silk covers and spotted the photograms on the vanity did he realize he was in Vaughn's bedroom.

The first thing he thought of was the August kiss. Fear swallowed him, thinking that somehow, last night, they'd stepped over the line. But he remembered nothing of the sort, and his clothes were properly on, albeit shoeless and jacketless, and there was no alcohol on his breath. He must have fallen asleep then, while they were watching the latest episode of the medical show? Embarrassed, he wandered out to the kitchen, where the Regent was preparing breakfast.

"Vaughn?"

The man glanced up from a smoking pan. Smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Good morning."

Alex inspected his face, then looked away blushing. "Good morning. Thank you for letting me stay. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be trouble..."

"Not trouble," said Vaughn, plating an omelette. "I'm glad for the company. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. That smells delicious."

"It's all yours."

Moments later, they were seated in the dining room, watching morning fall across the state. Vaughn was quieter than his usual self, although perhaps he was simply like this in the mornings. Alex didn't press him to speak either, so they were nearly finished with the meal when the silence broke.

"Are you happy, Alex?"

Alex paused with his last bite on his fork. He looked up, surprised. "Hm?"

Vaughn pushed his plate slightly away from himself. He was staring at the rim of it. "I've just been thinking. August, when we went out for your birthday, you seemed happy. Genuinely happy. And I haven't seen you like that since." He paused. "Actually, on the contrary, you seem tired."

His chest stung. Bittersweet, that Vaughn noticed. Worrisome too.

"There's been a lot going on at work."

Vaughn looked up. "But are you happy?"

Alex hesitated. Folded his hands beneath the table and smiled. "I'm happy right now."

Something melted in Vaughn's expression. In that moment it became painfully clear that what passed between them that August night had never truly vanished. Alex could feel it cutting at his heart. He looked at the skyscape, smile fading.

"Oh, no, don't do that," said Vaughn.

Alex glanced at him. The Regent rubbed his forehead, brow twisting.

"Alex, can we speak honestly with each other for a moment?"

"Vaughn?"

"It isn't your work at CyberSec that's been keeping you so busy, is it?"

Alex was quiet.

"The Council doesn't know about the Grounder from '76. I removed the records a few years ago. If they looked into it now, it'd seem like he'd been executed." Vaughn paused, a silence Alex very much needed to process what he had just said. "My original plan, when we first met,  _was_ to keep tabs on you. I had suspicions from the very beginning. But you know what came of that. I thought I would just stay by your side, be a safety net if you needed it, but what did you really mean that night when you said you'd figured it out?"

"I don't remember saying that," lied Alex.

Vaughn frowned. A heavy silence passed. "Listen, Alex. I'm not foolish enough to think I can dissuade you from doing whatever it is you're doing. Just like I'm not foolish enough to think I can get you to love me."

"Vaughn..."

"Stop. Listen. I'm worried, okay? I—" His hands curled, not quite clenching. "I had no idea how light you were until I carried you to bed last night. When we aren't together, do you eat?"

Struck, Alex had no words.

"Just tell me something, Alex. Let me help you."

It was the vulnerability. The sincerity. Alex opened his mouth.

And froze.

Vaughn suspected a fragment of the truth. A small, tiny fragment. An ultimately inconsequential fragment that wouldn't force him to choose between his own preservation and Alex's life. He meant well, Alex believed this, and he believed that Vaughn's derision for the System was as true as his own. But he was a Regent of the High Council, responsible for hundreds of millions of lives, and if he knew everything, the whole span of Alex's intentions—there was no certainty he would still take Alex's side just yet. No, the stage was far too early.

"I appreciate you, Vaughn," Alex said at last. "More than I can put into words. So much. But right now, I have nothing to tell you."

Quiet.

Vaughn looked away.

"Promise me you'll take better care of yourself," he said quietly.

"I promise," said Alex.

And he did. One proper meal each day. With the Ground investigation progressing and time ticking, it was no small sacrifice to make—but his promises to Vaughn were at least worth this much.

 

* * *

 

By day, SA21 ironically demanded more of his attention than it had before Alex decrypted the Tree. It was because the dimensional secret, was, in hindsight, almost obvious. The warped distortion of the code in 3D suggested visual tampering, and Alex worried that soon, someone else might catch onto the truth. It was integral to be the most productive member of that project team, always steps ahead of everyone else, despite the pressure it bore and the attention it attracted—it was integral because it was the only way he could control the direction of the project.

To do this, he added an additional layer of encryption to the Tree, which scrambled segments of the 5D code according to a set of algorithms that changed by the hour of the day. Soon, whether by their own observations or his subtle suggestions, the team would notice those segments moving about and find themselves preoccupied with Alex's decoy algorithms. This would buy him some time—enough, perhaps, to finish his nullification code: the scorch code, as he had come to call it. A program that could render its targeted willow-leaf Tag inoperable.

The months went.

September '82, he took his annual vacation days. He spent the first weekend with his father, who was now dating again and obliviously proud of his son's progress at CyberSec. For a short time, Alex was reminded of what life could have been like—indulging in the simple worries of a high Sky life. Then he returned to his apartment, where he locked himself for twelve uninterrupted days.

By the end of that immersive period, he could see the end of the first stage in sight.

October 3rd, Alex was the last to exit the network at CyberSec in the evening. He expected the rest of the SA21 team to have gone home, but when he went to the common room, he found Mars Melbon and Ella Boutros conversing in high spirits. Collecting his jacket from the closet, he idly eavesdropped.

"Seriously? Forty-six volumes?" said Boutros.

"That's what I heard. Would love to get a copy of his brain scan and interrogation records too. Can you imagine? He might have more insight into the Tree than we do, and we're the ones operating that damned thing."

Alex slipped his jacket on, dusting out a fold in his sleeve.

"Shame his notes are all Korean. How long's the translation going to take?"

He froze.

Korean. Notes. Brain scan, interrogation?

"Bulk considered? Probably a few—"

"What?"

Alex had stumbled into the common room, blood cold. Even that toneless word felt frigid on his lips.

"Oh, done for the day?" said Melbon.

"Whose notes? Whose interrogation?"

"Fresh news from Inv," said Melbon, speaking too languidly for Alex's pulse. "Their agent went undercover and found the culprits responsible for the midground security hacks. Some rebels running a clinic on the Ground. But get this, right—one of them was Tagged. They're working on his notes right now, but the team's thinking he's been working around the memory wipes for years.  _Years_. I'll bet you my next paycheck the Council's going to—hey, Myeong!"

Alex hurried from the room. He couldn't stay. He couldn't hide the expression bleeding into his face.

It was Haneul. It was unmistakably Haneul. And he—

He had sentenced Haneul to death.

His hacks for Bennie. His stupid optimism that if he worked hard enough, fast enough, he could make it in time. His naive assumption that he could estimate the true state of the investigation from the network alone. His failure to predict Haneul—that Haneul, even stripped of his memories, would put his neck on the line for his people like this. His every moment of leisure these past few months, foolish—

"Alex?"

Two hands caught his arms before he collided with their chest. He looked up and saw Demari, frowning.

"Are you alright? What is it?"

He tried to calm himself and think quickly. He swallowed to wet his throat.

"The Grounders they caught, can I speak with them?"

Demari released him. "They're in transport to the Imperial for questioning now, so I doubt it. Why?"

"Melbon says one of them has been working around the memory wipes. He might have useful information for decrypting the code. Please, this kind of opportunity doesn't come often. Is there a way?"

The director wore a torn look before his brow drew and his eyes drifted. He seemed to be thinking hard.

A moment later, he said, "I can speak to the Council. They might not grant you an audience, but they can get the answers to your questions tonight, or however long it takes."

"However long it takes?"

"No more than a week. It never takes more than a week, I promise."

Alex nodded. He looked at the white ground, pretending his urgency had left. He thanked the director, after which they exchanged more leisurely farewells than Alex had the time for. It took him too much restraint to keep from speeding the falcon on the way home, but he was under city monitor eyes, and he could not afford any evidence of more abnormal behavior.

At 5:49, he entered the network. He was not sure how he could possibly do this, but he had given up on reasonable planning, because reasonable meant impossible. He just knew that the foundation of everything he had worked for in the past six years was under the executioner's blade. He could not stomach being practical, so impractically, he was going to save Haneul.

His first priority was the scorch code to black the Tag, which was still incomplete. As long as the Tag remained operational, the Sky could track and execute Haneul at its own whim. This meant Alex had until midnight to complete the nullifying code, before the physical damage from the interrogations rendered escape impossible. Until then, he hoped that the captured men and women would endure enough to keep themselves alive.

The first hour passed with stuttering focus, despair at every tick of the clock. At one point, he stopped to acknowledge the ugly thought that it was never supposed to be like this—the scorch code was supposed to have been a timely protection, a chance to heal the doctor from afar, not the only thing that could save his life. Alex thought about things going wrong, losing the man who had kept him from losing everything in that cold November, and that was when he viscerally understood there was no other way: he was going to succeed, or Haneul was going to die. So everything unnecessary shut down inside him, and he worked.

At 9:13, he had a complete program. He ran it on his System model, and in horror, watched as the simulated corresponding nervous system shut down when the Tag severed.

From then until 10:01, he made adjustments that made no difference. Then he stared at the program in front of him, an arsenal of two dozen tools and distinct codes, and he thought.

At 10:34, he began his final adjustment. It took him all the time he could spare. At midnight, he packed this up and traveled to the Imperial Tower.

 

* * *

 

So that his vehicle could not be tracked, Alex went by public commute. On the journey, he mapped out the escape routes via his connector and identified the relevant city monitors. His hands were steady doing this, steady when he walked from the light rail station to the Tower deck, under the cover of an oversized coat he had purchased years ago for this kind of possibility. He was steady until he found the shadowed blindspot along the Tower wall, and then as he sat to watch the lights from the Tower windows, his hands began to shake.

The last time he had been inside the Tower was with Vaughn. Kind, clever Vaughn, who had unveiled his suspicions to Alex only months ago. How much would it take for the others to make the same conclusion? So many precarious connections he couldn't erase, words and gestures and expressions he couldn't take back. Stronger than ever before was his fear of being caught, because the calculating supremacy of the State was not something that even Vaughn could protect him from. He didn't think he could live through it, and eventually, the shiver traveled to his wrists, his arms, until his whole body was freezing from the September breeze.

Then the last light in the Tower shut off, and he checked the time.

1:07.

56 seconds.

57.

58.

59.

1:08.

He shut his eyes and breathed. There was no time to be afraid. For ten more minutes, he waited, and then he entered the Tower.

The Imperial was the command center of the State. In his spare time, Alex had thoroughly studied its security as a matter of precaution. Before leaving the network, Alex had coded security passes into his connector and ghosted the tracks of his visits, but in the interest of time, he had decided to access the city monitors and the System from within the Tower. Quietly, he made his way to the control room in the empty late night silence.

There were no guards—that was the Sky's arrogance about the superiority of their technology. It was the most overwhelming advantage that Alex had tonight, and he was able to access the control center without issue. Soon he had the building monitors and basic security commands linked to his connector, the relevant rooms identified, a route covered by looped security data, and the captured details about his visit erased. His next stop was the network, from the port machines on the upper floor. Once there, he locked the doors and checked the visual footage of the holding cells.

Four new prisoners had been checked in this afternoon. Two he didn't know, the third a dark-skinned woman he might recognize if she lifted her head. These three were Tagless, held in adjacent cells and looking worse for wear. One of them, a woman with red curls, was emitting low vital signs on her monitor screen. Alex swallowed, swept her screen away and found the fourth.

They kept the final prisoner apart from the others. It was him.

He was strapped to a chair in a windowless, white-lit room. The pallor of his skin was wrong, sheened and the gold rusted, but he was breathing. His eyes were closed, not sleeping because of the occasional flicker of his lashes, the wince in his jaw. His jaw, dusted in black stubble, looked bruised. His hair was damp and shorter than Alex remembered, the muscles of his bared arm bolder, and he was older, but God was he still as beautiful as November.

Irrationally, Alex brushed the image on the holoscreen. His fingertips passed through air, obscuring the projection.

He shook it out of his head and set the connector aside, and then he went into the network.

Soon, he hung in front of the green and writhing letters of the Tree. He felt a familiar clarity in his mind, multiple processes beginning at once, and easily, he located the doctor's Tag by his registered genetic code.

No more trials. No second chances. It was all here—all, or nothing. When he had the stem of the Tag exposed to him, all preliminary arrangements made and his program in front of him, he wondered if he should wait another day. One more day, to make sure this worked. One more day—Haneul would hold out.

But would he? Would he be able to walk after another day, or even crawl out of this place, Tagged or not? Would they continue to question him, when under the influence of the System, he would have only distorted answers for them? Or would they simply move on and dissect him? He could be gone by tomorrow.

Alex shut his eyes. In the network, this motion halted all his senses.

Suspended in nothing, he told himself that either way, it was a deadly gamble. But he would rather be the one to kill him than to do nothing and watch him die.

He sprawled out the tools of his program.

It was comprised of twenty-four individual blades and needles, each with their own unique viral code, constructed to respond to the dynamic nature of the Astrid Tree. She was alive, her branches and stems and root, and like all living things, she could not be cleanly dissected by a single pair of scissors. It was an operation, and he was the surgeon.

Everything needed to happen in exact succession, in precise locations of the code. Alex multiplied the limbs of his avatar so that he would have the mobility to keep up. For the next hours, he made preparations for the vital operation, attuning each tool to the real Tree and ghosting his actions within its domain. When he was ready, he paused to collect himself.

Twelve seconds. The prototype he had run just hours ago gave him a twelve second window to sever the Tag before his intrusion triggered the execution command. It had not been enough time and his simulated targets kept dying.

This time, he was going to kill his target first. A false death bypass—delay the System reaction by two more seconds.

Fourteen was all he had. It needed to be enough.

He held his tools in place. The code became his world, his whole world, and his spatial vision reoriented to the dimensions of the System.

The first script melded into the Tag, and the green letters flashed crimson. Dead.

_One._

The viral codes seeped into the lines of the Tag where he placed them, unravelling and corroding, turning the System in on itself. It was odd, because later, he would realize he felt absolutely nothing in those fourteen seconds. Preservation? Desperation? Everything inside him was mechanized, that count in the far corner of his mind matching the exact rhythm of time.

_Thirteen._

A fraction before the last second, the code went still and black.


	22. 22

Alex stared at the dead Tag, waiting for the notice of his simulation results to pop up. Then he remembered this was real, and with his emotions suspended in air, he exited the network.

Out in the physical world, his heart and head were drumming up a storm. Against the ache of both, he opened the Tower monitors through his connector. Holding cell 6559C had Haneul slumped on a steel chair, bound, unconscious. The blue light that had been on his neck when Alex had last seen him was gone.

But he was not moving.

Alex blinked, mind blank, blood slow. He was beginning to feel the moment erode, his whole world splinter, when those shoulders jolted. Haneul lifted his head, shook it next. Alex exhaled a shaken laugh. It was 4:52 AM.

He watched Haneul look around, his neck bare of the Sky's electric light. His own eyes burned. Blurred. He wanted to shiver and cry, but there was no time, so he shut his eyes for three, four seconds. Then he dusted the folds from his oversized coat and left the port room.

The elevator took him down to floor 650, where the doctor was being held. Automated lights flashed down a darkened corridor as Alex walked, painfully conspicuous. He should have disabled the sensors—but this close, he couldn't be bothered to fix that mistake. At section 59 of the floor, he ran into the first physical restriction he'd seen in a Sky building: steel bars. These opened after he tampered with the control settings he'd linked to his connector, and then he was in a long, sterile hall. On the right was a spanning pane of one-way glass, interrupted only by the frames of entrances. He could see the first one, 6559A, empty. 6559B, empty.

6559C.

Alex stopped here. Behind it, Haneul was sitting with his eyes closed, jaw loose. No winces or flickers, shoulders spread and straight. He seemed to be waiting.

Alex opened the door.

Through the frame, Haneul lifted his eyelids. He saw Alex and blinked, but his expression did not change.

He said, voice graveled and monotone, "What's this?"

Alex hesitated. He looked away because it hurt to see that Haneul did not recognize him—but where was the surprise? Last they had met was, to Haneul, the only time they had met—a passing encounter that had not lasted even a minute. Even if his scorch code had eliminated the memory suppression, there was no guarantee Haneul's memories of Alex would return. That science was beyond Alex's expertise.

His eyes caught on the opened navigation screens of his connector, angled oddly with his limp arm. The corner read 5:04 AM. The Tower would open for business soon.

"There's no time," he said, going to the panel set into the wall. There he pulled his hand into a sleeve and carefully punched in the command to release the restraints on the chair. In his peripheral, Haneul turned his palms with a frown, then stood warily.

"Come with me," said Alex.

He left the room. He heard quiet footsteps behind. He knew he needed to say more, give an explanation, but he was having trouble finding words among everything else in his head. They were passing back through the glass of 6559B when Alex was roughly spun by his shoulders. His back hit the glass, and his head too, lightly. Haneul pressed a forearm to his neck, leaning close.

Alex's blood rushed. He was almost scared, but his first thought was that Haneul was warm—feverish.

"What," said Haneul, "is going on?"

Alex gripped his arm.

"I want to help you. I'm—"  _the man you saved six years ago,_ but he was suddenly afraid of the blank or disbelieving look he'd see in those eyes, so he bit his lip and brought up his wrist instead. Haneul's gaze flickered to the screens on his connector, which showed the occupied cells on the opposite section of the floor. "Morning is coming. We need to get the others before the first workers arrive."

The doctor's brow drew. 

"Who are you?"

"Does it matter? I'm on your side."

Haneul stepped back. His legs staggered, though his eyes were fired. After a moment, he clenched his jaw. "Okay. But I'm Tagged. If I go with them, I'll just—"

"I removed your Tag," said Alex. "I—voided it."

"That's impossible."

"It isn't. Please, we have to go. If you stay here, you will die. Please, take a chance on me—"  _because I've taken so many for you_ "—please, Haneul."

The draw between his eyebrows contracted faintly. The doctor said nothing while his eyes swept over Alex, and Alex kept his expression bare to his scrutiny.

After a moment, Haneul stepped back. He nodded down the corridor path. "Let's hurry."

Moments later, they were in section 12, where the other three were adjacently held. The first cell's occupant was a dark and stout man whose shirt was sweat-soaked, eyes bloodshot. He seemed barely coherent as Alex undid his bindings from the control panel and Haneul lifted him off the chair.

"Can you walk?" said Haneul.

"Think so. What's going on?"

"We're getting out of here," said Haneul.

Was it trust? Alex wished he had time to wonder about it.

Next door, he saw the dark-skinned woman properly. She glared from beneath a wild tousle of brown frizz, bones familiar, but skin thinner. She stared at him with a wary hostility like she couldn't place him, and then she blinked.

"What the fuck?" said Bennie.

"Hi," said Alex.

He released her restraints. Bennie sprang upright with more energy than the other man, mumbling as she rubbed her wrists, "I don't think I'm hallucinating, right?"

"No," said Alex. "Come on."

They went into the hall.

There, the stout man was staring at the glass of the last cell. A few more steps revealed Haneul inside, fingers pressed to the throat of the occupant woman. She was limp over the chair, short curls hanging down, left hand pocked with pink—there was some story behind that, he thought disjointedly. Even before Haneul dropped his hand and spoke, Alex could tell.

"She's gone."

The stout man staggered back. Bennie inhaled.

Haneul lifted the woman from the chair and carried her outside. Alex stared at the ground, guilt numbing him. Why did it feel as if he had killed her?

"Which way out?" said the doctor.

Alex glanced up. He found eyes steady on his, not accusatory—uniquely dark, but the pitch black of his framing lashes reminded anyone that they were dark like burning firewood, fuel and heat. He remembered that before all else, he needed to save this man from the Sky that wanted him dead, and so he pushed away his extraneous emotions.

He nodded toward the south bend of the hall.

"There's an exit to a storage deck nearby. Follow me."

They did so.

"What's in storage?" said Haneul.

Alex hesitated, glancing at the screen of his wrist—logs blinked of workers checking in. Just in time. "A way out."

"What about his Tag?" said Bennie.

"It's gone," said Haneul.

"What? How?"

"This way," said Alex, and veered down the left turn of a three-way split. His soft, hushed direction silenced the others as well.

They reached the storage deck after about five minutes. There was a transport chute for wares and disposal. One by one they hopped into the fourth cart, until only Alex and Haneul remained. The doctor stopped at the entrance and turned to Alex.

"This goes down?"

Alex said, "Midground."

"Where?"

"Sector 9's factory center."

Haneul nodded. "Thank you."

Alex shook his head. "Not yet. You need vehicles to go further. I know how to get them."

Haneul hesitated. Foolish doctor, thought Alex. In a place as dangerous as this, and still worried about a spoiled man from the upper Sky. He pursed his lips and pushed Haneul into the cart, following close behind. Once he was inside, there was no further argument.

After Alex set the destination on the control panel, they traveled in mechanical silence for what felt like hours. Each of them had something heavy to process. Alex leaned along the wall opposite the others, well aware that for them, he was still a mystery, a threat. For the first time in a long time, he was feeling hot instead of cold, humidity building beneath his oversized coat. It was distorting the clarity of his thoughts, so he pulled the coat off and folded it in his arms.

Then the conditioned air was too abrasive through his thin shirt, because he felt Haneul staring at him.

He glanced at the doctor. Haneul looked away. A stray lock of his sweat-damped hair fell in front of his face, but it did little to hide what appeared to be pain. Damage from the interrogation?

Bennie stepped between them, interrupting Alex's thoughts. She was staring at the doctor too, but her words were for Alex. "It's really gone? The Tag?"

"Not physically," said Alex. "But the implant is inoperable now. The System can no longer transmit or receive signals from it."

"Haneul?" said Bennie.

The doctor nodded. He rubbed his head, breathing unsteadily.

"How?" said Bennie.

"There's a procedure," said Alex. "It's complicated. But I can show you, when we have the opportunity."

There—Haneul looked up. Alex could not quite read his expression. He was pushing upright now, lips parting to speak.

"Why would you do that?" said the stout man first. "Why are you doing any of this? You're from the Sky, no?"

Alex gazed at the veins in his dark, shivering palms. He followed the cast of shadows to the corpse on the floor, to the worn tips of the doctor's shoes, and then he realized he had no idea how to say it. How could he express why he had risked himself tonight? Or why he lived on supplements and sleeping pills, fast pills and no time? Or why he would so easily give away the thing that had wholly consumed the past six years of his life.

Every expression sounded cheap, except one, and Alex was not stupid enough to say those words.

The shadow on the floor shifted. Haneul moved to the window at the front of the cart.

"You ghosted the cart?"

Alex said, "I disconnected it from the logs."

"And the city surveillance?" said Haneul.

"I looped all the data on the route we're taking."

Haneul turned to Alex. "You're prepared."

Alex nodded.

"Suspiciously prepared," said the stout man.

"Peter," said Haneul. One word, and then he continued speaking with Alex. "Things will be a mess on the Ground when we get back. But we're not without allies. I can get you a place to stay and three good meals a day, and I'll keep you safe. Do you want to come?"

"Hey, Doc—"

"I can't," said Alex.

Haneul paused.

"You can't stay here."

"I have to."

Haneul's jaw pulsed faintly. "They'll find you. Loop the surveillance and wipe your trace from the panels, but no matter how good you are, if you can cut the System, they'll pull everything they have to track you down. Come with me. There are places on the Ground the Council's never mapped. You'll be safe—"

"The State is working on decrypting and enhancing the System," said Alex, calmly. "The decryption project might be at a roadblock, but the Sky's architects are more capable than you think. Given enough time, they will make hell for the Ground. They  _will_ decrypt the Tree. And they will make something even more horrific out of it." He paused, glancing away. "I made a miscalculation. I showed my hand too early. I had to, or you would have died. But I also need to finish what I started."

"What you started?"

He didn't answer. Eventually, Haneul stepped back, dropping his weight against the wall. Eventually, the cart pulled to a stop. They exited in silence, into the dock of the central factories of Sector 9. They stepped carefully because some work had begun at the morning hour. Only when they had made it into the machine-run vehicular storage units did Alex speak.

"Wait here. I'll get the falcons."

They waited. He went to the security center. This one was more archaic than the network-based control center in the Imperial, but Alex had accounted for it in his planning. With the room entrance encoded into his connector, it wasn't so much about cracking security as it was about finding the right buttons. After fifteen minutes, Alex managed to unlock a newly-manufactured and unregistered falcon.

Peter boarded quickly when he returned, taking the third with him. Bennie lingered, giving Alex a quick embrace and a murmured  _thank you_  before she left. Haneul watched this happen and stayed yet another moment.

Midground. Hidden in the alley shadows. At the moment of parting, again.

His heart ached. Alex swallowed and said, "You have to go quickly."

Haneul walked closer to Alex. One step of distance between them, he spoke in a low voice.

"Listen. If things don't go well and you need a place, there's a bar beneath your Sector 19 called Solzhenitsyn. Order the old moon from the bartender, crumbled into stars. He'll bring you to me."

"Haneul—" began Alex, panicked.

"And if it does go well—November 1st, midnight, I'll be waiting by the tattoo parlor near Bridge M117. Sector 6. Can you remember that?"

"Why would you tell me this?" whispered Alex. "Why would you tell anyone from the Sky?"

"Can't I tell you?"

"Yes, but—"

He stopped, caught on the words  _you don't know what could happen_ , because Haneul had smiled at the first syllable from his mouth, and Alex had wanted for so long to see it.

The doctor canted his head and said, "Okay,  _cheonsa_."

Alex blinked, feeling a wash of indefinable things. Slowly, he recognized the relief from an ache that had gone on for years. He recognized happiness, disparate beside the fear that he was moments away from losing it again, and he felt suffocated by a desperation to go with this man.

He blinked again, feeling his eyes burn, and begged that he would not cry now. "My name—"

"Alex," said Haneul. "Be careful." He took a step back. "Thank you for saving my life."

Then he went, and Alex did cry.

 

* * *

 

He did not have much time, only the two hours before he was to report to work.

Back in the security of his apartment, at 6:48, Alex quickly retraced his route in the night and erased anything that could lead a trail to him. He didn't have the luxury to be as meticulous as he wanted to be because he could not afford to be late or erratic for work. After a shower, a nutrient bar, and a supplement pill, he went.

A part of him expected eyes, guards waiting through the entrance, maybe the government vehicles and flashing lights like they showed in films. There was nothing extraordinary when he arrived, except that everything was perfectly ordinary. The employees seemed not to know that anything had transpired in the night; only the SA21 team, which was instructed in the morning to operate outside of the System domain, had a peculiar start to the day.

Mid-afternoon, Alex received a message that instructed him to report to room 009A in Investigation Tower. It was anonymous and automated, unusual, dredging up fast paranoia as he made his way across the bridge from Development to Investigation. He was formulating a vague and dangerous escape plan when he boarded the elevator up.

009A was located on the topmost floor of Investigation. Unlike the rest of the building, this floor was made from black marble, a color to contain secrecy. Not many visited here; it was used, as far as Alex knew from the tour guide, only for untapped private meetings.

When he reached the double doors of 009A, opened to expose the conference room within, his legs ached with the reluctance of taking another step. The lull of talk, professional but light, lured him in. He processed several things at once.

In no particular order: there were three men and two women, all older than himself, all dressed in the manner of high-standing professionals, which made Alex the sharp standout with his worn brown sweater and wind-tangled hair; one of the men was Nicholas Yan, Director of Investigation, seated on on side of a long conference desk and reviewing a series of screens; one of the men was Will Demari, Development Director, who smiled faintly at Alex, which gave him hope that he was not about to be arrested; one of the women was new, sitting beside Demari, wearing a 'visitor' badge on her jacket; the other woman, her age visible on an elegant face, assessed his entrance from her seat with an intimidating calm; it took Alex a moment to recognize her as Noel Kanisorto, a Regent holding an air distinct from the rest of the room, much like that of her counterpart beside the window glass.

The man beside the window glass was jarring. He turned toward Alex with a kind of expectancy, a soft frown above his eyes. Alex held his gaze for a moment, and then tore his eyes away.

Vaughn. What was he doing here?

"Mr. Myeong," said Kanisorto. "I'm glad you could join us. Please, take a seat."

She was gesturing to the chair opposite his own. Chilled, Alex sat, and found himself alone before a panel of directors and Regents and unknown visitors. In his peripheral, Vaughn walked away from the windows and took his place to the far opposite left. It was quiet.

Kanisorto sipped a drink from her glass at leisure. Then she arched an eyebrow at Alex. "Concerned?"

He blinked. "Pardon?"

"To a young man like yourself, this must be quite an intimidating lineup."

He scanned the panel. Two Regents. Both directors of the department. An unknown fifth, with bunned hair and a floral necklace...he had a vague idea of what her role could be. This was most likely an interrogation.

He pushed aside the panic and took two hanging seconds to think. Exhaled.

"I...was hoping it might be relevant to a promotion."

Demari scratched his head. After a moment, Kanisorto chuckled and relaxed.

"Not quite, Mr. Myeong. We've called you here because we have a few pressing matters to discuss. Why don't we jump right into it?"

She reached for a remote in front of her. The holoprojector at the table center hummed to life, and moments later, the Astrid Tree grew into place. She logged in a Tag search. The coded branches enlarged until only a segment of the System was visible, and within this segment, a black-lined willow leaf hung.

Alex narrowed his eyes.

"What is that?" he said.

Kanisorto said, "Last night, the Grounder we detained escaped from the Tower. We tried tracking his whereabouts using the System, but we found his Tag in this state. It's as if the link has been severed, but possibly without damage to the Grounder himself. There's no body. The search is ongoing, but we have to assume the worst—which is that someone has figured out a way to attack the Tree's internal code. You see why we call you in now, Mr. Myeong."

He paused. He could not feign disbelief for fear of coming across as ingenuine, so he simply let the silence hang for a moment.

"You suspect me?"

Kanisorto shut down the hologram.

"Not exactly," she said. "Someone helped these Grounders escape. Someone accessed both the Tower security and the city surveillance. Someone ghosted their tracks almost entirely."

"Almost?"

"Director, if you would?"

Demari pulled up another holoscreen. Soon he displayed the view from a city monitor, zoomed in to a blurred figure in the far distance. It was a hooded Alex on the lane to the Tower deck, barely an hour after midnight. Though his face was obscured and his figure distorted by his clothes, Alex's blood ran cold to know he'd missed the shot during cleanup. Was it the only one?

"Shortly after this person entered the Tower," said Demari, "the security data was looped for six hours. They don't appear in any other city surveillance, which we've concluded is by design. An inspection of the Tower ports showed that one was in use, from about a half hour after this person entered the Tower to shortly before sunrise. It's likely that this person is responsible for both the security infiltration and the System modification."

"In other words," said Kanisorto, "we're dealing with someone who has the audacity and the skill to walk into our best-guarded tower, break out our highest priority prisoners, and hack the System. That takes some unprecedented talent, almost certainly from someone who's been living with the resources of the Sky, if not a Sky citizen. Naturally, we're obligated to suspect our best architects, and you were on that list. But according to our experts, it wouldn't have been possible for you to set up the security bypasses and make it to the Imperial in time. So you're cleared."

Alex wanted to frown. He kept his face straight and his confusion contained. Make it in time? He had no alibi.

Unless—

He glanced at Vaughn. The Regent met his gaze for a telling moment before turning away.

"That's good to hear," said Alex. "But my coworkers...?"

"Yes," said Kanisorto. " _That_ is why you're here. Part of it. You come highly recommended by both Director Yan and Director Demari, and my own colleague." She glanced at Vaughn. "The State is under more threat than it has been in centuries. If the System is compromised, war  _will_ tear us apart. We need the minds of our best architects, but we need to be cautious with who to trust. So we'll be relying on you, Mr. Myeong."

"To investigate my colleagues? Or to counteract the blacked Tags?"

"Both. How far along on the decoding project are you?"

"We've run through all existing decryption algorithms and their possible derivatives. At this point, I suspect our best bet would be working through Nnamani's research for anything that might have inspired her to create a unique algorithm."

"We're pressed for time now, Mr. Myeong. We'll need your best effort."

He nodded. "Is there any more information you have on the incident? The Grounders? It might help me understand how they managed this."

"Director Yan will debrief you on the insurgence case within the week. That's all for today. Unless you have any thoughts you'd like to share with us now?"

He paused. "No, I think I need to process this. Thank you."

They released him.

Back in Development Tower, he worked through the final three hours of the workday with a hard mask and scattered focus. The first bathroom break he took, he found his hands trembling fiercely as soon as the stall door shut. Close. Too damned close.

Five o'clock, he left for the parking deck. His falcon waited in the shadowed corner, escape from the precarious day. He had no sooner matched his connector to the vehicle's keyscan when a hand grabbed his shoulder. Gasping, he jolted around.

It was Vaughn. His eyes were flat.

Wordless, the Regent opened the driver's side door and slid into the seat. Alex stood, briefly dumbfounded before he hurried to the passenger's side. Still not speaking, Vaughn clicked the engine to life and drove onto the nearest skylane.

Far enough from CyberSec, Alex swallowed. "Did you—"

"Quiet."

Never had Vaughn spoken like this to him. What had been gratitude and apprehension chilled into raw nerves. Alex was silent all the way to Arleon Tower, silent following the man into his apartment. Vaughn's steps outpaced him in the living room, where Alex waited while the man disappeared into the kitchen. Water ran. Time passed. At last, Vaughn returned to the living room with wet patches down the front of his shirt. He looked a little less frigid than he had been.

"Sit down," he said curtly.

Alex sat. Vaughn leaned against the adjacent couch.

"I trusted you," said Vaughn.

Alex winced. "I don't..."

"Stop. No. I trusted you to have a little more self-preservation than this. Do you know how easy it was for me to figure it out? Even without the damned monitor evidence you left behind. God, Alex." He pressed his hand over his face, then walked with agitation around the couch. At last he sank into its seat and hung his head. "To think  _that_ was what you meant when you said you'd figured it out. Was that your plan from the beginning? Did you do all of this for him?"

He had no answer.

Vaughn looked up from beneath his hand. His eyes were dark. "I could have you executed."

Alex hesitated.

"Are you going to turn me in?"

"Yes! If you ever do anything like this again!"

"Why?" said Alex, leaning closer toward Vaughn. "You know it's wrong. You said yourself that it's inhumane. That you'd dismantle it if it were up to you—"

"Systematically! Tearing down the System will bring chaos. That  _isn't_ what I want."

"You don't know that—"

" _This_ isn't what I want!"

The strain in his voice. He kept it quiet, private despite the walls. But it was bursting along the seams. A moment later, Vaughn covered his face again. "You've the most brilliant mind I've ever known. I thought you'd use it to stay in the shadows. Get back your beloved Grounder his memories, maybe lay out the roots for a little more than that. But now you've turned the most dangerous people in the State against you. Do you have any idea what they would do to you?"

"Some."

"God damn it, Alex. Why didn't you come to me?"

There it was—the crux of his anger. Alex looked down at his hands, which had trembled so much these past two days he could still see the afterimage. "Because there was nothing you could have done that wouldn't have put you in danger." He looked up at Vaughn, who was staring now. "The Council would begin by doubting you. But doubt is really all it takes up there, isn't it? You told me the judgments of the High Council aren't bound by State law."

"You could be in the interrogation cells right now."

"Better me than us both," said Alex.

Vaughn hung his head. "I can't believe you." A pause. "Did he thank you, at least?"

"Yes," said Alex. He hesitated. "He remembered me."

Vaughn looked up. After a moment, he stood up. "It would be safer for the two of you to keep your distance. Let the investigation chase its ends and die out." He paused. "Actually, that isn't a suggestion. You're not going anywhere near the Grounders again. Or I  _will_ turn you in."

Alex nodded, not believing his threat.

"And you need to give the Council something. You've decrypted the code, haven't you? Christ, Alex. Feed them. Don't let them doubt your value and your loyalty. Do you understand?"

Alex nodded again.

Vaughn sighed. He paced the room until he stopped before the fish tank. Ran his hand over his face and said, quietly, "Go hang up your jacket and help me make dinner." 


	23. 23

In the first week following Haneul's leave from the Sky, the Council mandated the architectural project SEA103, which created an accessory that logged and analyzed Tag activity. It was a simple assignment, taking no more than a week to perfect, and soon fed reports to CyberSec of individuals who frequently triggered the System's memory wipes. Those had not been a threat to State security in the past, but after unearthing Haneul's systematic method of working around the wipes, the State took their precautions. Nine men and women were detained and interrogated, and all of them subsequently released.

As for Alex, those diagrams and notebooks had very different implications. He tried to imagine what it would be like to realize, time and time again, that he had no control of his reality. He couldn't. To endure that took a special resilience, and Alex recalled the image of the doctor in his operation room, smiling down at the face of the child he'd just saved. Glimpsing the half-finished translations of his forty-six notebooks, Alex discovered that even now, he still had new depths to uncover in his feelings for Haneul.

Before the State could completely decipher his journals, Alex erased them from the digital record, taking care not to pry into the private lines himself. Once he removed the physical copies from evidence, he kept them secure in a box until November.

By the end of October, the pace of things slowed. To keep his head out of the water, Alex had taken the lead in retracing Haneul's escape route via security interference. Midground was where investigation ran out of tracks. Similarly, Alex reported no progress on his decryption assignment. As old routines took over the dead ends, he had the space of breath to work out a sustainable way of hiding his tracks, no matter when or where he went.

When November 1st came around, Alex looked more carefully in the mirror than he had in a long time. His skin was tinged pink from the embarrassment that he was worried about something as inconsequential as appearance, but in fact, concealing the shadows beneath his eyes and the dryness of his lips was a customary habit. He only paid more attention tonight to little flaws, wondering if the doctor might too.

An hour before midnight, he left his apartment for midground, a fluster of emotions hardly bundled by the three-layered cottons of his sweaters and coat.  
  
  


* * *

  
  


Bridge M117 was located in a ghostly district of midground, between the tower stacks of two sprawling manufacturing plants. The smog tunnels that routed the pollution away from the Sky and toward the Ground were leaking, which dusted the area with a gray fog, and aside from the mechanical hum in the distance, there was no sound. Nothing but machines seemed to visit this place, so it was surreal to find a little tattoo shop at the base of a metal building.

It was an abandoned shop. Closer, Alex saw grime and dust over the windows, black behind the glass. The signs were rusting, and so was the frame of the door. Something brown was collecting along the edges, crackless, as if no one had opened those doors in years.

He did not want to be the first intruder, so he waited in the adjacent alley. It was 11:46.

The seconds passed in an excruciating rhythm, and a cold sweat was breaking under his sweaters. His ears, covered by the dark hood of his coat, were freezing, but his throat felt like it was sweltering in summer heat. He tried not to think about what it would mean if Haneul didn't show. He tried to focus on the anticipation, but this became blistering—his want to see the doctor again. He thought, with the strange smell and the gray fog in the air, that he might be sick soon.

Two minutes before midnight, there was a soft whir in the distance. Alex straightened, searching. A few moments later, a small blue falcon crossed the bridge and pulled into the nearby lane. It was an old model, worn and scratched. The door slid open. Haneul stepped out.

He was wearing a simple brown jacket, a thin shirt beneath, pants with the bottoms securely tucked into battered boots. His face was uncovered. Alex stepped out of the shadows of the alley, catching his eyes as they scanned this way. A chemical breeze passed between them.

Haneul smiled first, a corner of his lips tugging. He started forward, stopping a small arm's length away so that they were both sheltered by the shadows. Alex, who had removed his hood and opened his mouth, lost the words in his head. Without the adrenaline and an imminent danger, there was nothing to anchor his emotions.

"It's good to see you," said Haneul. His voice was—hoarse? Soft? Something in between.

Alex smiled then, faintly. He lowered his eyes and murmured, "An understatement. For me, at least."

Quiet.

Haneul tucked his hand into the pocket of his trousers. He shifted his weight, then turned toward the abandoned tattoo parlor. He nodded toward it.

"A friend of mine used to own this place. She had to come back to the Ground after the new policies in '77. It's not as clean as down there, but she's got more customers now. She's happier too, in some ways. Anyway," he turned back to Alex, "that's how I heard about this place. First time seeing it."

Alex didn't know what to say to that. After another moment of silence, he pulled the wheeled luggage behind him and pushed it toward Haneul. "Your journals. They were able to translate some before I got to them. But I deleted the files."

Haneul reached for the luggage handle. Their hands brushed before Alex withdrew.

"Thank you."

Heavy.

Alex looked up.

Gone was the man's smile; in its place, something truer. For a moment—and then, as if ashamed, Haneul looked away.

"I'm sorry for forgetting you."

"It wasn't your fault."

"No, I..." He paused. Sighed. "Most of it is back now. Still some gaps—too much tampering, I guess. But '76, that's all clear. You...how's your father?"

"Well. He's found a kind lady."

"That's good to hear."

Another pause. Their conversation could not seem to move without these thick silences. Too much that couldn't be put into words. Too much bursting the seams of his heart, because here was Haneul, recognizing him, remembering him after six long years. Free, at least in mind. A whole, living, choosing person again—and this time, they were not on the precipice of goodbye, two sides of an impossible wall. No, this time, there was hope.

Happiness, Alex realized, felt like this.

He exhaled, the air curled by a helpless smile. Haneul looked up at the breath, blinking before his eyes softened in his unique, gentle way. The past six years washed away. Alex closed the short space between them, pausing to give Haneul the chance to step back. When Haneul did not move, Alex touched his stubbled jaw and leaned forward to kiss him.

But his lips brushed the corner of Haneul's mouth. At the last moment, Haneul had turned away. 

Alex pulled back. It took a moment for the hurt to register, because Haneul was suddenly not looking at him. The doctor made distance, two small steps away.

What was wrong?

"We shouldn't stay here," Haneul said. "Let's head down."

Alex nodded numbly. Moments later, he climbed into Haneul's falcon. It smelled like old chemicals.

Haneul drove them toward the industrial clutter of the district, and under the cover of some dozen layers of tubing and metal, flew down below midground. When the dilapidated infrastructure of the Ground came into view, Alex felt a familiar suffocation, as if the pollution and the grime beyond the windows of the falcon were already in his lungs. He was afraid of the people below, who would see him and know he didn't belong. So he glanced at the doctor every once in a while, reminding himself he would be safe.

They docked, not twenty minutes later, on the deck of an obscured building. Haneul left the falcon to open the gates, which led to a creaking elevator, which took them and their vehicle to a wareroom filled with cobwebs, strewn mechanical parts, and rusting vehicles. Haneul threw a ragged gray sheet over the falcon, then gestured Alex to follow him out. In a half-enclosed parking yard where distant undercity noises echoed, Haneul pulled out a ground rider. 

"It'd be a walk otherwise," he said, tossing Alex a helmet.

Haneul put on his own helmet and fixed the case of journals to the back before sliding over the bike. Alex fastened his helmet and looked around for a second rider.

"Which one should I—"

Haneul pulled the vehicle in a quick loop and stopped in front of Alex. "Mine."

"Oh," he said softly, because there was not much space on the bike.

"Come on."

Alex climbed on. He wasn't sure where to put his hands at first, and hesitantly settled on Haneul's shoulders. Was it his imagination, or did those muscles tense? No time to wonder—the vehicle moved with a jolt and a rush, and as soon as they were on the low city lanes, Alex's grip looped around Haneul's waist. The speed tore off his hood, and that was to say nothing of the sharp, near-reckless turns that Haneul made. He held tight, deathly tight, eyes shut against the back of Haneul's jacket, a foreign whimper stuck in his throat.

Then he felt the rumble of a laugh beneath his arms, and the fear faded.

His hands had somehow wound up beneath the opening of Haneul's jacket. His fingers were curled in that thin shirt, and when Alex eased this, his palms pressed against the outline of muscle, breathing, a heartbeat. He smelled smoke and chemicals, hospital and disinfectant, rusted metal, a particular musk. All around him, the world of the bustling undercity went by, but it seemed like the wisps of dream beside this man.

Haneul. He was with Haneul.

He felt warm, even though the lashing wind was so cold.

"You alright?"

Alex nodded against his back and offered a muffled, "Mhm."

"Tell me if you need me to slow down."

He responded with a vague hum.

Eventually, they slowed on the narrow streets of ground level. They had reached a market district. Closed stalls lined the streets; behind them, almost all the indoor shops were still open. A surprising population filled the area despite the hour, and Alex remembered from years ago that the Ground never truly slept—night and day were illusions after all, when no one could see the real moon and sun.

Some way past the market district, they came to a tamer line of bars and restaurants. Haneul stopped in front of a bar named Solzhenitsyn, the e missing and the l hanging. A sign hung on the door that read  _CLOSED._ The interior, through the shaded windows, seemed lit.

A little bell jingled when they opened the door. A warm murmur faded, and four and a half pairs of eyes turned toward Alex, only one of them familiar. The door shut gently, like the half-filled glass set on the wooden table. Bennie grinned and waved a hand.

"Hey," said Bennie.

A burly man whistled, only to be promptly kicked under his table. Over the bar counter, a large and bearded blond was walking his way around, while a dark one-eyed woman stirred her ice cubes. But all of this was secondary to the man who'd bolted upright even before Bennie spoke, hurrying this way. Alex caught a glimpse of his honeyed eyes as he passed by: fierce, soft, unforgettable.

He went straight for Haneul. Threw his arms around the doctor, murmured  _thank god_  by his cheek, and kissed him. It was only a quick peck, a gesture of relief, but Haneul did not stop him.

Strange.

All this time, Alex had believed he could be satisfied if only Haneul was freed of the System's oppression. If, maybe, the doctor could remember him. Say his name one more time. Even when Haneul turned his head on midground tonight, Alex had thought—he could be okay with the drifts of time, as long as Haneul was safe. But watching someone else kiss him...

It was difficult to breathe.

Haneul caught that man's hands. Pulled back. He glanced at Alex, who looked away. Bennie was saying something.

"...bit of a risk. But here's a couple people who want to say thanks, so let me introduce you." Bennie shifted in her seat to better gesture around the room. Meanwhile, Alex faced her again. "This here's MM, local charmer and occasional engineer" —the whistler, green eyes glittering with a wink— "Victor, who runs this place" —the bearded man emerging from behind the bar— "Livia, our favorite nurse" —the one-eyed woman— "and Gale, our second favorite nurse. Debatable for some though, I guess."

The man beside the doctor.

Alex smiled, knowing it did not quite reach his eyes. "It's good to meet you all."

"You can trust these people," said Haneul. "If you ever need anything, we will be here to repay our debt. No bars held."

"Is that supposed to be a pun?" snickered the one named MM.

"I'm Peter's father," said the bearded barowner, Victor. He had stopped at Alex side. "I don't care why you did it. I don't care why they say you did it. Thank you for saving my son's life."

Then he lifted Alex's hand and kissed his own knuckles that covered it.

Later, Alex wondered if the effect of this gesture was because the man was beginning to bald, was set with a bulging figure, imperfect in a way no one in the Sky ever was, and was still so easy to imagine as his own father, thanking someone for Alex's life. He wondered if it was because that sincere gratitude so deeply contrasted his own stilted emotions.

In that particular moment, what he felt suddenly vanished Gale and Haneul from his mind. It was indefinable. Staggering. And for once, the richness of it had nothing to do with the people he knew and loved. It came from a stranger.

He blinked, and remembered he hadn't come only for Haneul.

"We heard you killed his Tag too," said MM, nodding toward Haneul. "Didn't think that was possible."

"I...didn't think so either," said Alex.

The room fell quiet.

He cleared his throat. "It was the first time I tried it." He glanced at the doctor. "Sorry. I didn't have another choice."

"You saved my life," said Haneul, "in more ways than one. There's nothing to apologize for."

"Could you do it again, you think?" said MM.

"Yes," said Alex. "I still need to perfect the program. Reduce the operation time and minimize the risks. But yes, I can do it again. It's just that..." He paused, fighting the urge to chew his lip. Should he lay it out here? He had only just met these people. But Haneul said they were trustworthy, and Alex needed allies.

"Just that?" said Bennie.

"Cutting the Tags one at a time will draw directed attention," he said. "It's better to destroy the System altogether."

Silence.

"You...can do that?"

"Not yet," said Alex. "But I think, in time..."

"That's mad," said Haneul, voice sharp. He paused when Alex looked at him, seeming to search for words. "Even if you managed it—if—that would mean disaster. We can't handle the repercussions. The Ground would eat the brunt of the violence."

"It doesn't need to be disaster," said Alex. "Right now, almost no one knows what the System actually does, except for a few Grounders who've managed to escape the Tag and some elites at the top of the Sky. But if the truth comes to light, we can use that to appeal to the Sky's majority. And if we can lay out the—"

"Stop this," said Haneul.

"Really?" said MM. "It sounds pretty good to me so far."

Alex bit his teeth. Haneul, of all people...

"You've  _felt_ the System, doctor. You want to leave your people to that?"

Haneul didn't respond. The skin over his jaw tightened, tension between them palpable as it had never been. But then again, Alex supposed, the two of them had not truly known each other for so long.

After a moment, Haneul turned toward the bar back.

"Come with me."

Alex glanced at the others. Bennie shrugged. MM sighed. In the corner, Gale peered at him with a faint frown above his sharp eyes. Leaving them in the bar room, he followed Haneul through a narrow doorframe, through two connected, unlit rooms.

The doctor stopped in a small kitchen area where the hum of the refrigerator echoed around them like an isolating barrier. Alone with him again, Alex felt his personal emotions resurfacing. Less warm this time. Barely soft, except Haneul's stray locks, those still looked as if they could melt beneath his touch. That thought ached. He crossed his arms unconsciously as the doctor leaned against the counter.

It took him a while to speak.

"Alex."

Alex curled his fingers into his own upper arm.

"I brought you here because I wanted to thank you. Because I wanted you to know that if anything ever goes wrong up there, you have people who would put their lives on the line for you, just like you did for us. And because we want to take up your offer about the code you used to free me. But as soon as that's off your hands, I want you to forget all of this."

A pause.

"What?"

Haneul looked up. Alex stepped closer, the sparks of anger luring him. His chest burned.

"You know getting involved with us only ends one way," said Haneul.

"Didn't you hear anything I said back there?"

"I heard everything. And I know, just as well as you do, that it would take a miracle for us to have the outcome you hope for."

"Miracle," whispered Alex.

Haneul looked away. "After this, I'll take you back to the Sky. Forget us. Live a good life. I—"

"Do you think it was a miracle? That you survived the Tag?"

The doctor looked at Alex. "I..."

" _Cheonsa_ ," said Alex. He swallowed, so that his voice could keep without breaking. "It means angel. Is that how you think of me? Someone who belongs far away from here? Far away from you?"

Haneul began to shake his head. Somehow, they had come close enough that Alex could count the numbers of his lashes. See the lines of his irises, bare and kind. It had hurt less when the doctor said,  _who are you?_

The tears spilled out of his eyes, and his voice came out broken.

"I should have said no when you asked me if I wanted to go home."

"No, Alex—"

He brushed the doctor's hand away from his face. He stumbled back.

"I just want you to be safe," said Haneul softly. He paused, and his voice became softer still. "The destruction of the System isn't worth your life. Not to me."

Alex hesitated. He looked up.

Watching Haneul's lowered head and bared eyes, he found nothing but sincerity. And for the first time in his life, he thought about the doctor— _selfish._

But the Haneul he had known six years ago, the Haneul in the Imperial holding cells, in the ink of his forty-six notebooks and memory diagrams, was anything but selfish. This was wrong. This moment, these words—it wasn't him. Was it fear? Distortions of the System? Or, maybe, for Alex, did he...

Alex sniffed and brushed aside his tears. "To hell with what you want. I saved your life. I saved your friends' lives. You owe me what I want. Once a month, you will meet with me on the Ground."

"That's too dangerous—"

"You owe me at least this much."

Haneul withdrew, quiet.

"You  _owe_  me, Haneul."

At last, the doctor shut his eyes and exhaled. "December 1st. I'll pick you up at the parlor."

"Good," said Alex. He stepped back. "If you don't show, I'll find you myself. Even if it gets me beaten and killed."

Haneul sighed and rubbed his forehead. "You're different from how I remember you."

"Yes," said Alex, turning. "It's why you're still alive."


	24. 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double-update! Make sure to read 23 first!

2582 turned into 2583, and as the winter began to thaw, so too did the past six years of distance between Alex and the Ground. He talked most frequently with Bennie between their monthly meetings, through these nondescript communication devices provided by MM—MM, whose nickname was short for Martin Martins, who liked sugared tea better than alcohol and kept a mutt named Sandia, which meant watermelon. It was not long before he'd established a sense of friendship with the five he'd met that first November night.  

On the technical end of things, there was progress. His motive behind insisting on these monthly meetings was not to embed himself unwelcomed into Haneul's life, but to show them all what could be. By January, Alex had refined the scorch code to an undetectable hour-long procedure and taught Bennie the full operation. By February, the two had a working algorithm for new routes for the clinic supplies, which determined which locations to hit, at what times, and for what items—all optimized to keep suspicions and risk at a minimum. By March, a new clinic was back in fast business.

News of Haneul's return from the Sky had spread. So too did tales of his severed Tag. To stay hidden and anonymous, the clinic band didn't intervene in the circulation of rumors, which evolved into some grandiose tales of a 'chosen one', a savior, from the oppression of the Sky. According to Victor and his barkeeps, some people savored the hope. Others derided it as inciting retribution from the Sky. Most wrote it off as an impossible story. But whatever the Ground believed, it spread whispers of  _the doctor_ like wildfire.

Even anonymously masked by this title, so much attention made it more dangerous for Haneul to move around. Come March, Alex opted not to wait for his pick-up at midground. The night before they were scheduled to meet, he went down to the Ground on his own. Nobody paid the raggedly hooded wanderer much attention, and by midnight, he arrived at the new clinic building in Sector 11, on the fifth floor of a stack of cheap barbershops and salons.

The space was smaller than the apartment building of 2576. Alex would have expected the lot to keep their heads down after the uprooting last September, but the lobby room was cramped with patients even at the late hour. He worried to see so many vulnerable and unfamiliar faces drifting in and out of this safe haven, though Bennie had assured him many times over that their security precautions were different now. This night, he could barely hear his own thoughts over the wailing of two babies.

A young man at the front desk was speaking to an elderly woman. As soon as they finished, Alex took her place.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for Haneul."

"What's your business?"

"Personal. I'm a friend."

The young man narrowed his eyes. "You can't just call him, then?"

Alex hesitated briefly. "My phone is dead."

"Can I have your name then? Number and address too, please."

Alex sighed quietly. It was good that they were being careful about visitors, but he wasn't entirely sure how to format a Ground address. "Martin Davis," he said. "Six one, eight eight four..."

"Hey."

He paused and turned at the familiar voice. Approaching the desk was Gale, dressed in blue scrubs. He exchanged a nod with the man at the front desk and said, "I've got him. Thanks, Carl." He gestured for Alex with a small smile in the corner of his mouth. "Come with me."

He followed Gale toward the stairs at the back.

"We weren't expecting you," said the man once they were out of earshot. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes. I thought I'd save Haneul the trouble of escorting me. There is something I wanted to talk to him about, with the new supply routes."

"He's working on a kid right now. Might be another hour."

"That's fine."

They stopped in front of an apartment door, the metal carrying dents which had not existed in the apartment door from '76. Gale stuck in a key and pushed the door open for Alex. "Make yourself comfortable. Food and water's in the kitchen, have whatever you want. I've got to get back to some patients, but you'll be alright?"

Alex nodded. Gale smiled, and a moment later, was gone.

As soon as Alex stepped inside the apartment, he realized it was not Gale's apartment, but theirs. Shoes of two different sizes set into the rack. Winter coats of two different styles hung on the hangers. Double sets of plates and cups waiting washing in the sink. A splayed, unfinished game of Baduk in the middle of the unfurnished floor.

He paused, eyeing that game for a moment. Black was winning. Exhaling unsteadily, he turned and left the apartment. The door locked behind him.

He wandered down the hall, eventually onto the open deck. Here the smoke from a nearby building drifted past, occasionally refracting the colors of the cluttered streets below. Red for the broken lotto shop. Neon yellow for the strip club. A patch of blue and green, flashing vehicle lights. It was chilly tonight, but better the polluted cold than the warmth of a home he had turned down years ago. Tired, Alex leaned against the rails and watched the streets go on below.

Foreign.

And this jealousy he felt—it was foolish. Here beneath the crushing pressure of the Sky, how could anyone survive alone for long? And if a man born of and bred by the Ground were to choose a partner, not a trophy, but a  _partner_ , who would reasonably choose a spoiled  _angel_ from the Sky? In this cramped, restless clinic, Haneul shared more with his doctors and nurses than Alex could imagine: life, death, all the stages in between, and most significantly, the daily smog and abrasive lights of the Ground.

Alex could give Haneul his life, he could give Haneul freedom, but he could never give Haneul the deep solidarity that Gale could.

"Well, isn't this a sweet surprise?"

He turned from the rails. Blinked.

"Maria."

The woman smiled beautifully, coming to give him an embrace. They had reunited in December, when upon the warmth of her arms, he realized whom she had reminded him of all this time: his mother. She was still young though, more sisterly to him than anything else. Seeing her now, despite the heaviness of his feelings, he smiled.

"What are you doing out here, love?" said Maria.

"Waiting," said Alex.

"It's cold, isn't it?"

He shook his head. She touched his knuckles, then covered them in her hands, humming doubtfully.

"I prefer it here," he said, unable to help the note in his tone.

Maria peered at him. "Something's on your mind."

"It's nothing."

"Alex."

He sighed and shook his head again. "It's silly." He paused. "How have you been?"

"The same as last time," said Maria. She cocked her head. "Gale mentioned you were here. It's him, isn't it?"

Alex peeked up, quiet.

She chuckled. "Don't look so surprised. I've seen plenty of faces like that. And I didn't expect this situation to sit easy with either of you to begin with. Given..." She shrugged. "Everything."

"Everything?"

Maria leaned against the rail, spreading out her arms. This close, her left sprawled behind Alex's back, a comforting proximity. She looked at the side of the building as she spoke, her voice softening. "We went through his journals together when he came back. In '76, and had all these inconsistent memories. Really, it felt like a nightmare. I try not to think about it. Wanted him not to think about it either. You know how it is. The Tag's a part of something bigger than us. Too big for us to fight. Best to just...let it be. Enjoy the damned time we have."

"But he didn't let it be," said Alex, thinking of his diagrams and notes.

"He couldn't," said Maria, "because he couldn't remember you."

Alex frowned, not understanding.

"In his journal," said Maria, "his last entries before they Tagged him, he wrote about a man he fell for like clockwork. They're his words, so I won't be intrusive and parrot them to you. But he knew they didn't just take his memories when they Tagged him. They took someone away from him. So he fought back."

Alex folded his hands, afraid elsewise, he wouldn't contain his feelings. What Maria was saying...it sounded almost as if  _he_ was the reason Haneul had borne the devastation of countless memory resets, just as Haneul had been the reason Alex bore the last six years.

But Gale.

"He found someone else," Alex could not help but say.

Maria nodded. "The Tag took you more than once. More than a hundred times, maybe. Every time he looked away from his notes, he forgot who he was trying to remember. So he was always left looking for someone, and then came Gale." She paused. "I couldn't stop it. Didn't want to. He needed someone. And now..."

The lips, turning away from his. A sprawl of black and white game pieces.

"They've built something together," said Alex softly. He looked at the floor.

Maria touched his arm, gently kneading her hold. "He still cares about you. But you know the kind of man he is."

The concrete blurred. "I know," whispered Alex. He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, biting back the quiver in his voice. He felt raw, young, and lost. Haneul, after all, was the only man he'd ever loved like this. The only person he had ever wanted like this. Since the day of that horrific  _who are you_ , Haneul was the centerpiece of every decision. The pillar behind his resilience. He was once the doctor who saved Alex kindly, but over the years he had somehow become everything.

And now, that  _who are you_ answered, he was being asked to let Haneul go.

"I know," he said again. Exhaled. Softer: "It isn't important, anyway."

A pause.

"Would you like to come have some tea with me? It really is very cold out here."

He nodded. Gave the smog and lights one last look, and followed Maria inside. That night would pass painfully, with stilted smiles and distanced conversations, but next time, his hold on the doctor came a little looser. He didn't love him less. Just relegated that love to a farther place, beneath the sprawl of his code and the hopes of the Ground.

 

* * *

 

May, Alex met with the crew for drinks at Solzhenitsyn. It was another one of those untimed drop-ins, to spare Haneul the visit up. A messenger rang up the doctor, who was delayed by his work at the clinic. Meanwhile, Alex spoke with MM and Bennie about the technical end of their operations in a corner booth, where the red street lights flickered through a rain-dotted window, and a dented metal table wore scratched names and provocative sketches.

"I've got a friend," said MM, two light drinks and an hour in. "Well, two friends, actually. They've got some nice skill sets we could use as far as smooth runs up go, if, you know, we're really trying to expand the business. Problem is, they're still Tagged."

"We've got the code for that," said Bennie.

MM nodded. "Just not the pass to use it, yeah?"

"It's meant for emergencies," said Alex. "Comparable to open-heart surgery down here, and you know how risky those can get."

"But if they're willing?  _Hermano,_ you know it's like living dead to be wearing one of those things."

"We could mod the code," said Bennie. "Make it so we can cut the Tags without blacking them."

"To make alterations undetectable, I see," said Alex. He paused for a bit. "I'll need a month, at least. Work's stacking up in CyberSec and I have to keep the cover straight."

"Wait," said Bennie. She reached into her pocket. "I've got you a head start." She pulled out a small blue tab, a data port, and began to slide it across the table as she spoke. "If you adapt this to the System code, I think—"

A hand slapped down over the data port, callused and rough. Alex's heart skipped a beat.

By the edge of the table, having appeared from the back, Haneul picked up the tab with a dissatisfied look on his face. He looked between the three sitting, sharing tension as his eyes passed. He held up the port and gestured it almost dangerously. His glare was for Bennie.

"What do you think you're doing?" said the doctor.

"Sharing the workload, man. Pass it over. Hey, Haneul—"

He'd pocketed the port. "Get out, both of you." He looked at Alex. "We need to talk."

It must have been his hard tone. Bennie and MM glanced at each other, then picked up their drinks and slid out of their seats. Before leaving, MM gave Alex's shoulder a reassuring squeeze as if he were about to confront a daunting challenger, and Haneul eyed the gesture with a lidded stare. When those two were out of earshot—presumably; Alex could only see Haneul watching them go—the doctor sat across from Alex and huffed through his nose.

"What's with you?" said Alex.

Haneul's eyes bore into Alex with this tangible frustration. He pulled out the data port and shook it again. "This is more than I agreed to."

"Yes. Because it doesn't involve you."

"You asked for visits to the Ground.  _Visits_ , Alex, and here you are, getting neck deep in our shit. You think I don't see where this leads? What happens after you take this little thing home?" Haneul leaned forward sharply, voice a near hiss, teeth almost bared. "By playing at hero, you are digging yourself a fucking grave."

Alex swallowed. Softly, "Livia told me she dreams of a better world."

Haneul slammed a palm on the table. "So do I, but you're not thinking about the cost!"

Some eyes flickered this way. Alex dared not raise his voice for fear of drawing more attention, but he wished he could scream. Instead, he shook his head and whispered, "Why are you so afraid to take responsibility for doing what's right? At least Vaughn is trying to find an answer."

Haneul withdrew faintly. "Vaughn?"

Alex closed his mouth and looked away, unsure of why he'd mentioned the Regent.

Across the table, Haneul ran a hand through his hair. A long moment passed. "I'm sorry. Everything's been different since I got back. The reality here, the possibility of changing it, it's not like I haven't thought about it. But I wouldn't be the one taking responsibility. It'd be you. If the Sky found out, they wouldn't just kill you. And..."

Alex looked up, finding that Haneul appeared six years younger. His words faded to silence, but his side-cast eyes spoke the rest. That selfishness, so unlike the man Alex knew him to be.

"And my life," said Alex, "is more important to you than the millions others stripped of their humanity?" He went on before the doctor could conjure an answer. "Don't lie. I know you're not that kind of person. Not after everything you've done for them."

Haneul began to shake his head, his lips parting to respond. But before he could, a third shadow fell over them.

"Is everything alright?"

Alex stole the data port from Haneul's loose grip and stood up. He turned to Gale, who had just now arrived in his rain-slicked coat. Said, "Talk some sense into your man, would you? I'll see you next month."

"Alex, wait—"

He left, not to speak with the doctor again until June.

 

* * *

 

They watched the doors swing closed behind Alex, and then Gale smiled, sighed, and slid into his seat. While Haneul rubbed his temple, he downed the half-glass of Alex's unfinished drink—a sprig of rare citrus and honey, this subtle gift from the barkeep on duty tonight. Though it stung something awful, Gale chuckled after he swallowed.

"He's wrong about that, isn't he?"

Haneul peered up. Gale shrugged.

"You haven't been mine since he brought you back from the Sky."

"Gale..."

"Hey. It's alright. How could I blame you? Someone like that comes once in an era." He gazed after the doors again, the echoes of some eavesdropped words ringing in his ears. For all the pain of knowing how he paled in comparison beside Haneul's angel, his heart still thundered with the same hope every time that man came down. He swallowed and faced his lover, who still couldn't see it clearly. "Do you hear me, Haneul? He is the Ground's one chance. We have to find a way to make it count."

Haneul looked down, his fists clenching until his knuckles paled. Gale sighed and waved for the barkeep's attention.

"Dima? Two of your strongest  _golubaya_ , please."

 

* * *

 

June, 2583.

Alex arrived on the Ground to find MM at the bar, smelling of perfumed roses and leaning aside a dented motorbike. He winked at Alex and waved him on, saying that the others were waiting elsewhere. It was all a little strange, and had he known MM any less, he might be wary tonight. Instead he clutched tight to the engineer who throttled down the road, noting all the little differences from that first ride with Haneul. MM was not so feverish. Thicker and softer at the muscles too.

They drove through a tunnel complex. Emerged in an entirely unfamiliar sector, a little darker than 11. In a ring of what appeared to be semi-industrial, semi-commercial buildings, MM dismounted and walked Alex through the passersby. They slipped into an alley, to the side door of a decrepit building, where MM keyed in a code for the door. Inside, which was unlit, unpopulated, Alex felt his emergency knife below his jacket and wondered if he should be ready to use it.

He trusted MM because Haneul had promised he could, but all this was simply eerie.

"Where's this?" said Alex, hearing his voice faintly echo.

"Nowhere yet," said MM. He pulled out a flashlight and a phone, sending a text on the latter before he flashed the former down the hall. "This way."

They went down an unkempt corridor sprawled with cobwebs. At the doors to a small elevator, footsteps stained the entrance. They went inside, where MM keyed in a  _L07._ They were going  _under_ ground—a surreal concept.

"Still rounding up a few people to work on the infrastructure, you know, so don't take the broken buttons too badly."

Alex frowned. "The infrastructure?"

MM shined the flashlight on himself bottom-up, lighting up a smile that seemed horrific in the atmosphere. But Alex caught that familiar excited twinkle in his eye and eased a little. "You'll see. You'll see."

Soon the elevator doors opened to a tunneling hall. Here, light sensors picked up their step and flickered bright. The air smelled of recent disinfectant. He followed behind MM, disbelieving as the hall opened to a walkway. The walkway overlooked a lower floor echoing with noise—with the sounds of construction, barked instructions, the occasional laugh. There in the corner, a tuft of familiar brown hair—Gale, bent over an unfamiliar older face. A half-dozen people working on the electric wiring in the walls.

"This..."

"Used to be a nuclear shelter," said MM, "way back when. We thought it might come in handy."

Alex looked at the engineer. He understood, but he dared not believe it. "For?"

"For—"

"For taking responsibility. For doing what's right."

Alex inhaled. Turned around. There, Haneul had emerged from the staircase. He looked tired, worked—dressed down to a damp tank, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, dappled in some kind of lint. And yet when he smiled at Alex now, he looked like he had the energy to start a day from scratch.

He stopped before Alex and looked down at his own gloved hands. It was a brief, apologetic moment.

He looked up again, and said, "You said you can bring down the System."

Alex nodded. "It'll take a few years, but yes. I have an outline of the program."

"You said it might not end in disaster."

"I also have...a skeleton of a plan."

Haneul nodded. "I might have the rest."

Alex breathed, his lips daring to curve. He searched the doctor's eyes, finding them unreadable, but not relenting on those words. 

"Haneul."

Haneul placed his hand on the walkway rails, gazing over the haphazard shelter room. "We're picking up where the old resistance left off, and we're doing it right this time. We're going to make this count,  _cheonsa_."

 


	25. 25

Late '83 became a delicate balancing game between the Sky and the Ground. To prepare a resistance was no small feat, and to prepare a bloodless one, even larger. Haneul, the doctor graced by the miracle of his return from the Sky, became the face of this resistance, bearing the weight of new hopes and fearful doubts with the necessarily infallible mask of a leader. His people began to recruit a network, and the thieving from the Sky expanded beyond just medical supplies; weapons, vehicles, and machinery all slowly made their way onto the target list. By winter, they had established contact with a few Tagged Grounders with work license above midground. By winter, rumors of the resistance's existence had spread across the sectors of the Ground.

The Sky, on alert since the first Tag went black, cycled out half of its SA21 team and renamed the project SA22 with a countervirus priority. Between the dead-end decoding work, the team used its program on System activity analysis to arrest dozens of Grounders. None of these were affiliated with Haneul's people, but it tore at Alex's conscience to leave them to their fates. He had no choice: even if no one else suspected him, if he made a move, Vaughn would know the truth.

Vaughn, since that pivotal September, had been a delicate case. A little more distant. A little more stilted. Their monthly meetings went on, and sometimes they still laughed together. But there was a new wariness, because despite the man's caring intentions, he was still on the ruling board of the State. He still had obligations, overbearing power, and he seemed to understand that Alex hadn't quite relapsed into a good Sky citizen. The Regent was particularly deliberate about keeping tabs on Alex whenever a new Grounder was brought up for interrogation, and though Alex believed Vaughn wouldn't actually turn him in, he couldn't stake everything on his faith in their friendship. More importantly, he couldn't expect Vaughn to jeopardize his own life by covering for Alex—so he resolved to need no covering at all.

Come 2584 though, they took a young man from the Ground. A boy no older than twenty. But the Sky, in its usual way, saw him as lesser than human, a piece in a game against untamed livestock. As if to make a statement, they interrogated him in the Imperial, and then they cut his Tag. That boy had nothing to do with any of this, and because he was as young as Alex had been when the Ground took him, it felt as if he had taken the executioner's blade in Alex's place.

So he went to the Ground. For hours he deliberated with Haneul and the others. Two weeks later, he called up Demari and said he had something to show the director.

They met in the network display room, Alex urging him over as if there was something truly startling to be rushed about. Once together, he opened up the miniature projection of the System and enlarged a cluster of familiar leaves. He ran a detection program he had built some days ago, and two Tags ran black.

"What is this?" said Demari.

"They've been voided," said Alex. "I double-checked. The System is no longer receiving or transmitting signal through these Tags."

"When did this happen?"

"It must have been over the course of this past year. There are about a hundred of them."

"Christ," whispered the director. "How did we miss this?"

Because, thought Alex, the five-dimensional structure of Astrid's code was perfect camouflage for the false afterimages of the severed Tags. Because the program he had developed with Bennie to make these alterations undetectable had been near flawless. But to Demari, he said, "Whoever has been doing this wrote the cover code in the same language as the System. There was a small irregularity in a segment I had used before for SEA103. I don't know if I would have caught it otherwise."

Demari brought a hand up to his perfect stubble, rubbing it with a deep draw in his brow.

"This changes everything," he murmured.

Alex nodded, for indeed it did. To the investigators of the Sky, it meant that the criminal blade was deliberating neglecting the detained Grounders, and most likely anyone in the blade's circle had already been unTagged; it meant that the next step of their investigation was to lay off those fruitless arrests, to investigate the identities of the blacked Tags. To the architects of the Sky, it was another piece of insight into the internal structure of the System, another ton of pressure to decode the Tree.

The Council, except one, was impressed with the discovery. They were impressed with the subsequent investigation as well, which, although resulting in no new arrests, unveiled the footprints of a resistance network that sprawled across the sectors of the Ground. They promoted Alex to senior that spring—the first time a twenty-six year old had been given the rank in CyberSec. It was not so much a reward as it was the weight of a pressing obligation: with the new title, they redirect his sole priority to working on a counter for what they now called Code Black.

The stakes climbed. Now that the Sky was no longer looking in the wrong direction, the casualties of innocents dropped; meanwhile, the real resistance, the doctor and his people, had to swallow the pressure. Up in the Sky, Alex had bought himself more time with the System and more safety against the Council's suspicions. Eventually, he would have to discover for them the five-dimensional secret of the Tree; eventually, he might even have to unravel his own scorch code. But that was the gamble: before anything Alex did for the Council could be used to kill the rebellion from the Ground, he would burn the Tree to ashes.

 

* * *

 

Shortly after his promotion, Vaughn invited Alex to dinner. 'To celebrate', he said in his message. But the atmosphere of that private booth on the  _Marine Heaven_ deck was anything but celebratory.

He slid into the seat across Vaughn, watching the Regent gaze over the deck without expression. His characteristic charisma was underlaid with something precarious, keeping passersby away. The way his hands folded over his lap, maybe? Subtly closed.

He turned to Alex and said, "Congratulations."

Alex paused. "Thank you."

Quiet.

The waitress came and took their drink orders.

When she had gone: "I thought we agreed your involvement with them was over. Care to explain why there are eight dozen Tags voided?"

"It wasn't me," said Alex. "I gave the code away."

"And if you're lying about that, it wouldn't be the first time."

Alex canted his head. "I'm not."

"It's curious," said Vaughn, "that you would be the one to discover those voided Tags. You don't strike me as the type to frame others to take the fall for you, not when the penalty is worse than death. So forgive me, Alex, if I'm still doubtful." He leaned forward. "Tell me the truth. And if you lie to me, I won't forgive you."

Those were sincere words. A shiver of uncertainty ran beneath Alex's skin. He opened his mouth, struggling to remember what he had prepared for this conversation. "I gave the code away. You know how I feel about the System. I can't just keep a cure like that and not use it. I had to at least give it away." Paused. "I dug up the voided Tags because Melbon was heading in the same direction with his work. I've covered my trail as well as I can, but the extra bit of credit can only help me, no? I don't  _want_ them to get caught. But I'm not going down with them either, because then so do you, and so does  _he_."

"The doctor."

"I did what I did for him. I owe him a debt that I can't ever repay, and I...have feelings for him." He looked away, heart pounding, trying to find a sense of direction for his words. What were they doing now, veering toward too honest? It must be Vaughn. He must he afraid of lying, of not being forgiven. But... "If anything puts him in danger, I  _will_ do something about it. But the rest of this...I told you, I wouldn't get involved."

"Investigation says the doctor's the head on all this."

"They're wrong," said Alex.

Vaughn watched him. The waitress came with the drinks, then left obliviously.

"You've been seeing him."

Alex pressed a hand over his temple. He hesitated to respond, the echo of that  _I won't forgive you_ drumming harsh against his skull. "I keep track of him. I don't...no, we don't 'see' each other." 

Vaughn shook his head. A tense silence settled. He drank again, and turned his gaze toward the cityscape.

"Is that enough for you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I can bring him to the Sky. Make him one of us. He'd need to undergo surgery, and I'd need your help. But it'll keep you both out of danger. It'd make you happy, wouldn't it?"

Alex couldn't speak.

He'd predicted the branches of this conversation well before he arrived at the restaurant tonight, but he never imagined that Vaughn would offer this. A life with another man. Was it love, truly unconditional? Or was it...

Vaughn sighed. "I'm not trying to lay a trap, Alex. I'm trying to keep you from endangering your life behind my back."

He shook his head. "He loves someone else," said Alex. "And I don't think he could leave the Ground. It's his home."

Vaughn turned toward the cityscape again, where his gaze lingered until a soft laugh escaped his lips. "He loves someone else?" He closed his eyes and moved his jaw, a stark profile in the night lights, the image so raw that Alex could feel his pain. But after a moment, he opened his eyes and spoke calmly. "We'll catch them. Dig up their tracks. The Ground doesn't have the resources to win out against us. Can you make sure the trail won't lead to him, or to you? Because if not, it doesn't matter who he loves or where he calls home. You need to make him vanish from the grid. Or you need to let him go."

"The trail won't lead to us."

"That's not good enough for me."

"I'll...talk to him, then. Just give me time..."

"I want an answer by the end of the quarter."

Alex nodded. He already knew what that answer needed to be. The only one it could be—another lie.

Vaughn leaned forward and caught his hand below the table, his fingers digging into Alex's pulse. His eyes flared, an intensity Alex hadn't seen in a long time.

"You are telling the truth, aren't you?"

Alex held his eyes and nodded.

Vaughn exhaled. "Then until we figure out what to do about  _him,_ don't you dare get caught."

"I won't."

The grip on his hand tightened briefly.

Behind the visceral reaction of his heart, his gut churned with guilt. But all he really took away from that night was the ache, and the love, he felt for this man. Someone whose ambition had inspired him, whose loyalty had been unwavering despite all of Alex's damning secrets. How difficult it must be for the Regent to walk this line—how selfless even the most selfish intent must be.

One day, when the time was right, he would tell Vaughn everything. That these temporary falsehoods were the only way he knew how to protect both the man on the Ground and the man in the Sky. Until then, he could only hope that nothing would rupture what they had.

 

* * *

 

Summertime, a rainstorm brought Alex to the ground. He preferred to travel in this weather, when walkers were sparse and heavy coats hid all faces; long ago, Haneul had learned to hope when the chemical trickles reached the Ground, taking more breaks than usual to check the halls, more intermittent peeks at his phone. So when he spotted that shadowed figure in the lobby of their relocated clinic, he was not so much surprised as he was relieved.

Nobody had called him this time. Not a whisper from the nurses that someone was waiting to speak with him. If he were not looking for that small, ambiguously clothed silhouette, the nose and lips and angled jaw peaking beneath the shadows of that hood, the loose, damp strands of dark hair, they would have been all too easy to miss. Instead, Haneul slipped off his gloves and told his clerk he was taking a break, and approached the unassuming man.

Alex lifted his head, smiling before he stood and retreated around the corner. Haneul followed him into a more private hall, checking first for any potential eavesdroppers.

"How long have you been waiting?"

"Not very. I didn't expect to catch you so soon."

It was barely eleven. Since taking on the role of a Ground resistance, Haneul had set hard hours for his time in the clinic. Midnight was when they closed shop, often to recongregate in their underground base and work out the next supply run or underground task. Midnight, or later, was usually also when Alex appeared.

"Let me grab my jacket," said Haneul. "We'll head down together."

"I've already been," said Alex.

Haneul paused, watching as gloved fingers folded back that hood. As ever, his heart tightened at the image of that impossibly beautiful face, dusted with accents of fatigue and barely hidden neglect. His lips, once so warm and soft, creased dry from under-hydration and the harsh air of the Ground. His bones, sharper than they should be, had the chisel of exhaustion.

"I've caught up with the others," said Alex, looking away from Haneul's face. "This is my last stop before I head back."

"Ah."

"I can wait until you're finished here."

Haneul didn't respond immediately, occupied by the swirl of thoughts in his head. That soft  _last,_ echoing in the wrong context. The chemical soak in his hair, cold, and Alex was always so adverse to the cold. The subtle gauntness of his features, which, to anyone who paid less attention, might pass as a choice of aesthetic.

In his pause, Alex glanced up. His lashes flickered, the nervous motion accentuated by the long-cast shadows. "Haneul?"

"Wait here," he said at last.

Moments later, he returned with his jacket and an umbrella. Alex followed him without protest, his trademark patience keeping him silent until they arrived inside a tiny noodle shop down the block. The owner greeted Haneul with a familiar smile and, at his request, showed them to a private booth in the back. They exchanged a few words in Korean, and then he was left alone with Alex, who was watching him curiously.

"I ordered for you," said Haneul. "Hope you don't mind."

"No," said Alex. He glanced after the owner, whose neck was covered by a thin scarf.

"That's old man Kinam," said Haneul. "Was a patient at the previous clinic. He's the one who recommended this area to us."

"Does he have family?"

"A daughter. She lives with her mother."

"Tagged?"

"Both of the daughter and mother, yes. But whatever they think about him, it doesn't register with the System as problematic. So he still gets to see his little girl once in a while. I've met her once. Reminded me of Bennie when she was younger."

Alex smiled faintly. Haneul mirrored it, though the younger man's eyes were too downcast to see.

A moment later, the shopowner returned with two glasses of water. When he had gone, Alex touched an ungloved hand to the cold, perspiring glass. His fingernails had been recently shorn, as if in a hurry. The corner of his little finger had some scarring. It tapped now, perhaps unconsciously, against his drink.

"Haneul," he began slowly, "there's something I have to tell you."

The smile on Haneul's lips faded. Business again. How often it was just business between them—these rushed, rare hours, after all, had to be split among so much.

"Sounds ominous."

"Not quite," said Alex. "I am a little concerned, though. It's something I should have told you a while ago. So please don't be upset with me."

"What is it?"

A pause.

"Do you know the Regent Vaughn Scio?"

Haneul frowned, familiar names clicking. "Vaughn Sc...? Is that the Vaughn you were talking about?"

Alex blinked, appearing confused. It had been a long time—it seemed to take him a moment to recall what Haneul was talking about: that slip of tongue a year ago.

"Yes. Him. We've been friends for a while."

"Friends?"

Alex looked down and pulled his water glass to his front, folding his hands around it. A retreating gesture. "Yes. He knows." He glanced up quickly as Haneul tensed. "Suspects. He was the one who pardoned you from execution in '76. And he was the one who erased those files. He knows I freed you from the Imperial, and that I'm still in contact with you. But I've told him that I'm not involved in this resistance—that my involvement with the Ground only goes as far as you."

"What?"

Hurriedly, "I have it under control, I swear. He doesn't know anything about all  _this_ , beyond what the State investigation team has gathered. He doesn't know that I know, or that even that you're involved. And he won't turn me in—"

"He's a  _Regent_. His job—no, his fucking existence—revolves around beating our heads down. For fuck's sake—"

"Haneul, calm down. He isn't like them—"

"How do you know that?"

"Because I know him better than they do," said Alex, eyes intent.

Haneul pressed a hand over his eyes and groaned. "Alex," he said, suddenly hit by the endless hours of stitching flesh and fixing bones, "he's risking his life for you."

"I know."

"A Regent of  _this_  kind of state doesn't do that without a motive."

"He cares about me."

Haneul looked across the table, at a pair of soft, imploring eyes. That intentness hadn't evaporated yet, leaving them a contradiction between fiercely strong and horrifically vulnerable. Who, in their right mind, wouldn't look at those eyes and see a timeless treasure? Haneul did—something so precious to him he dared not lay his hands on it. And now, someone else had strung their leash around Alex's throat. Whether he used it or not didn't matter—it was there, and no amount of trust or care or friendship changed that fact.

"He cares about you," Haneul echoed tonelessly, "but would he bring down the Sky for you? Because if the answer is no, then he has you at gunpoint."

"It won't come to that," Alex said. "And even if he had me at gunpoint, I don't think he'd ever pull the trigger." He reached for Haneul's hand. "I'm telling you this because I owe it to you. It's your life at stake too. Come July, I'm going to tell him you vanished from my radar. As far as he will know, we lose contact. My visits will probably be less frequent for a time, but I'll work out a comm channel with MM."

"And if he finds out you lied to him?"

"I doubt he'll trust what I say to begin with. But if worse comes to worst, I do have a backup plan. Several. I need you to trust me. Trust that I know what I'm doing."

Haneul gazed at the pale skin above his knuckles, that point of contact cold, electric. He repressed a shiver and looked away, thinking on trust. Trust? He trusted this man more than could be encompassed by the word—with his life, his sanity, future, the fate of the whole Ground. He trusted that Alex could outsmart the Sky at any and every turn, or else he would have never consented to this coup d'etat. Of course Alex knew what he was doing. But what was he doing?

"What is he to you?" said Haneul.

Alex pulled his hand back. "A good friend." He paused. "His mother was a Grounder, you know. He has his own feelings about the System too. About the tradeoff between stability and humane government. You two are not so different."

Haneul shook his head silently.

"I'm sorry," said Alex suddenly. "I didn't mean..."

"Two  _kalguksu_  for you gentlemen! Careful, it's right out of the pot."

The shopowner had returned with two bowls of noodles, which he set upon the table with a jovial grin. Haneul smiled to keep the air of their conversation private, thanked the old man, and watched him wander out of earshot. He heard the utensils clink and turned back to find Alex pulling at the noodles with his chopsticks, fingers as strangely held as they had been in the past. The image softened his irritation, enough for him to sigh and eat as well.

"Oh," said Alex, smiling as if their conversation hadn't happened, "this is delicious. What did he call it?"

" _Kal-guksu_ ," said Haneul. "Knife noodles. Named after the traditional way the dough is shaped."

" _Kal-guksu,_ " echoed Alex. A pause. " _Oi-naengguk._ "

"Hm?"

"Do you remember? You taught me the recipe. I've tried my hand at it a few times, but I don't think I have it right."

Haneul hesitated. "One of these days, I could show you again."

Alex stirred at his bowl. "I'd like that." He stirred some more. "Can I ask about you, Haneul?"

"I don't think we're finished talking about your Regent yet."

Alex made a face. Haneul frowned, then sighed.

"Fine. What about me?"

"Well, it's just that in all this time, we've rarely had the time to speak as friends. It's felt more like a...formal partnership, I suppose."

"What do you want to know, then?"

Alex picked up a piece of carrot and eyed it for a moment. "Those six years with the Tag...what was it like?"

He thought back to his third-floor apartment, boxes in the living room, book stacks in the bedroom, always so innocuous at first. That journal, read and reread and marked in vivid highlights and furious scratched notes. Each time realizing, more horrific than the last. He struggled to find the right words to synthesize that feeling. "Sleep paralysis," he said eventually. "In retrospect, it felt like a state of dreaming. And the moments when I realized my memories were being tampered with were the moments I was conscious of being asleep. But I had no way of waking up."

Alex was quiet, his chopsticks still. Haneul chuckled.

"It wasn't as bad as it could have been. I had something to hold onto, even when I wasn't conscious of it. A concept of the past that kept me going. And I wasn't alone in the fight."

Alex's fingers shifted. A lock of his hair, dried now from the chemical rain, fell across his temple, and the shadows of his lashes cast low over his cheeks. After a moment, he picked up a small gathering of noodles and resumed a slow, tentative meal.

"How did you meet Gale?"

Gale.

Haneul looked toward the wall of the booth, where the crack of the yellow reminded him he was home, on the Ground, still immersed in his day to day reality. His chest pricked with guilt, because he loved that man, but for a moment, he had forgotten about him again. Because for a moment, he had nearly resented the mention of that name.

"He'd wound up on the losing end of a gang war in the old district," said Haneul. "We fixed him up. Then he wouldn't leave. So we struck a bargain, and he started earning his keep—the supply runs, he handled most of those. After that, it didn't take him long to figure out something was wrong with my memory. He's a persistent one."

Alex nodded. "I'm glad you have him."

Haneul hesitated. "I'm not sure I would have stayed sane without him and Maria. Although if it weren't for you, sanity wouldn't have mattered much, would it?"

Alex conjured a small smile, falling quiet again over his meal. Haneul let the silence settle, every so often glancing at his company. Heat from the broth flushed his angled cheeks, moisture easing the creases in his soft lips. Every so often, his fingers fumbled with his chopsticks, and his brow drew with a gentle crease in his skin. If only Haneul could see him like this everyday.

But life was never as simple as taking what he wanted, no matter how badly he wanted it, no matter how willingly it was offered. He couldn't do that to Gale. He couldn't do that to Alex—entangle his heart with one man from the Ground, when already, he walked a line as thin as a thread in the Sky. He could only keep his emotions contained, his words faintly distant, and hope that Alex would come out of all this safe and well.

When they finished their meal, he drove Alex to the tower where his falcon was parked. Said  _see you next time_  like he wasn't dreading the moment that vehicle took flight, wasn't holding back another line. He memorized that little farewell smile Alex gave before he slid behind his door, watched the sleek Sky black fade into the clutter of the upper Ground. When it was gone, he finally sighed the lodged words out of his throat.

Without anyone around to hear them, he slid over his bike and rode on home, achingly awaiting the next rain.

 

* * *

 

Winter night, '84, Gale woke to the afterchill of the first frost and soft scratch of straws. The bed was empty and the space of the upturned covers was cool. He laid awake for a while, waiting for Haneul to come back, but knowing he wouldn't for a while. It had been like this since the summer time, and so he was eventually lured to their private back deck, where he found the foolish doctor thinly dressed, cross-legged on the floor, threading wire and straw through a familiar little shape. Foolish like only hours before, when he had kissed Gale goodnight with  _saranghae._

It wasn't a lie. Gale knew that Haneul loved him as much as any man loved their other, if only because he would not have begun a relationship with him otherwise. He was not the expressive sort and neither was he a romantic lover; he was more often the practicality of washed metal. But he was perceptive, attentive, deeply caring, and in Gale's eyes or anyone else's, the best man on the Ground.

So it wasn't a lie, but  _this_ love, the one he promised to Gale, was nothing like the scattered straw along his feet, another woven bird to fill the empty night.

"How many is that now?"

Haneul looked up. The unfinished wing of that bird in his palm drooped with loose straw, the strands spilling over his arm. With a tired smile, he said, "It helps me sleep."

"I know," said Gale, and sighed.

The doctor looked down at his little bird. His palm turned gently, as if to shield the vulnerable thing. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay," said Gale, for that, and for a lot of things. He gazed toward the sky, which could not be seen through the clutter of metal and winter smog. "Come inside, at least. It's frosty out."

Haneul looked at his palms, but obliged. Inside, he tucked his unfinished bird atop a shelf where six dozen more overspilled the ledge. He used to have a collection of creatures—roosters and lions, monkeys, fish, goats, rats—but the wingless, grounded ones had all been lost to Sky's first sweep of their home. Now all that came of his hands were creatures of the sky. And though those hands were still as gentle, giving as ever, they had become callused and scarred by the twines of wire and straw.

So that night, when Haneul went to bed at last, Gale didn't join him. Neither did he ever again.

The doctor looked at where he stood in the doorframe, a soft frown on his tired brow, asking, "Not coming?"

"I'll take the couch," he said.

Haneul sat upright. "Gale?"

Gale smiled, though it hurt, because some things could not be helped. "I'd stay if it made things easier for you. But it doesn't. So good night, Haneul. And I hope you tell him that one day."

"What?"

" _Saranghae_ ," said Gale, one last time, before he closed the door. 


	26. 26

By the time 2584 came to an end, the network of the resistance had expanded to encompass over three hundred members, a small cluster in each of the major sectors. It was a brilliant man named Stefan who oversaw the management of this network with airtight precision—recruited back in September of '83, a former righthand to an underground druglord with more ethics in his bones than his old boss could tolerate. Three hundred was an impressive number for a place like the Ground, a solid establishment of operatives for when the System came down. Three hundred was also dangerous, a hiking risk of discovery for each wayward member.

Come '85, they paused expansion and laid low. Paced weapons runs were slowing as well; they stocked for the worst case scenario of a bloodless coup turning bloody, so that the Ground would at least have a means to fight back, but it was meant to be an emergency supply that capped out quickly. Only the necessary medical supply runs continued, and apart from training and dusting and redusting their tracks, the resistance merely waited for Alex's code.

He cut his Ground trips down during this time, two visits after the summer of '84. This close, he needed to minimize risk. And he needed to appease Vaughn, who, as expected, hadn't quite bought the lie that Alex had 'lost contact' with Haneul. By '85, however, that little detail no longer mattered so much: contrary to expectation, his relationship with the Regent grew only closer in the months leading up to the new year.

In retrospect, it was probably because cutting down his visits to the Ground had left Alex unbearably lonely. And Vaughn—he was always there. Deliberately there, from the moment he had learned that Alex loved a man who wouldn't have him, to fill in the space. A kind gesture, and maybe an opportunistic one.

February 3rd, it was the Regent's birthday. This night, Alex put aside all thoughts of the Ground, of the doctor, and of the System to be present with his dearest friend. It didn't matter to him whether Vaughn's warmth and availability this past half-year was because he had an agenda; that didn't change the lengths the man had gone to to protect Alex, or the person he was at his core. With a present boxed in blue and a smile tested in the window glass, Alex made his way to their meeting point.

It was in the lower Sky tonight, a spot picked by Alex. The name of the restaurant was  _Koy._ The decor was cheap and the space was nearly cluttered, and Vaughn seemed quizzically amused at the selection. He waited until they were seated before asking, "What's special here?"

Alex furnished the menu and pointed at a few items. "This, I think? And these?"

Vaughn scanned the tablet. After a moment, his amusement softened. "How did you figure it out?"

They were all unknowing derivatives of traditional Eastern European dishes. The culture of cuisine had melted indecipherably in the Sky, so that even the names of most of the dishes were lost to vagaries. The ingredients and description were the telltale markers. Up here, without prior knowledge, Alex wouldn't have known where to begin. But with a bar name like  _Solzhenitsyn,_ Victor knew quite a bit about Russian cuisine and had been a priceless consult.

Alex smiled and said, "Research."

"That's..."

Alex pulled out the blue box from his bag, having reserved it for this evasive moment. He handed it to Vaughn. "And happy birthday."

The man stared at the box. "You..."

Alex pushed it over, smiling. "You're having trouble with your sentences today."

"I'm surprised," said Vaughn, at last taking the offering.

Like sugared treats, gift-giving had phased out of the Sky for the occasion of birthdays. In a place so privileged, material goods, like the healthless indulgence of a rich cake, were considered too cheap for a time so special. But Vaughn had always tried to gift Alex, and it took until these recent years for Alex to realize it was habit from the Ground. When he was younger, he must have looked forward to the packages on his birthdays.

"Open it," said Alex.

Dinner order forgotten, Vaughn set the box atop the table. His hands skimmed the edges, lips barely parted, his eyes alight. Alex warmed, faintly nervous as the Regent lifted the top back. He paused then. Reached in slowly. He rolled between his fingers the soft, rich fabric of a deep mulberry red.

"I went with the color of your favorite sweater."

"My favorite sweater?"

"The one you always change out of before you cook."

Vaughn arched an eyebrow. After a moment, his brow smoothed over a laugh. "I'll be sure to always change out of this one before I cook as well."

"I should hope so. It's the only birthday shirt I've ever given."

Vaughn closed the box. "Alex. Thank you."

Alex hesitated, not expecting that tone. After a moment, he glanced down and said, "You don't know what your friendship means to me, Vaughn. This is just a small gesture. I hope, one day..."

"One day?"

He cleared his throat. "Let's order. I haven't eaten all day."

Vaughn let his slip go. They moved on to the topic of cuisine, and then childhood meals, and then simply childhoods. Alex's was periods of erratic obsession with puzzles, math, coding, and then the intermittent dabble at socialization. Vaughn's was elaborate, sprawled between the Sky and the Ground, the ambitions of his father and the traditions of his mother. Two hours later, strolling the night lanes of the upper Sky, they were still talking about this, and went on speaking until a comfortable silence fell.

It was a good night. The kind of night that Alex would have dreamed of as his own ideal, in a world before he knew the Ground. Up here, the walkways in late winter were equipped with pulsing heat, the midnight lights a gentle glitter and the hanging garden decks blooming with life. Peaceful, painless. Utopian.

"Vaughn," Alex said, breaking the silence, "did your mother ever teach you Russian?"

"Russian? No. I'm not sure she knew any herself. Why do you bring it up?"

Because, very briefly, Alex had thought of  _aleumdaun_ , beautiful, down where nothing was peaceful or painless. But he swept the memory aside and said, "I was just curious."

A moment passed as they kept walking.

"Sasha."

Alex looked up, wondering if Vaughn had spotted someone by the name. But he wasn't looking toward anything. "Sasha?"

"It's the Russian endearment for the name Alexander. I had a cousin by that name."

"Sasha," echoed Alex. "I like it."

Vaughn peered at him. "Oh?"

He tapped the present box below Vaughn's arm. "It matches the color of your shirt."

Vaughn chuckled and stopped walking.

"I'm serious," said Alex. "If I were not Alex, I wouldn't mind being Sasha."

"Then, it would be okay if I called you Sasha?"

Alex laughed. "If your tongue ever slipped in the workplace, I'd have to spin a hell of a story. Wait—what are you doing?"

Vaughn had lifted his wrist, connector band exposed and projected screen maneuvered beneath his hand, and was sliding an arm around Alex. "Taking a birthday picture," he said, though Alex had figured it out by then. "Keep smiling."

Coming off a laugh, it wasn't such a tall order to obey. Alex relaxed into a grin and faced the eye on the connector band. The lights flashed, a three-second countdown. On the final blink, something brushed his cheek.

He turned, confused, feeling the stray eyes of passersby. "You..."

Vaughn had lowered his wrist and was gazing patiently at Alex. "Do you still mind?"

Alex touched his cheek, where the chaste kiss stung. He scanned the lapels of Vaughn's coat as if he'd find some sort of appropriate response in the fabric. No such thing. Not when he still hadn't told Vaughn the truth, not even if the warmth of the night made the space between himself and Haneul so much easier to bear. Not even if he wanted to say  _no._

"I don't know," said Alex.

Vaughn chuckled, relaxed, startling Alex out of his turmoil. "It's alright." He tapped his connector. "This is all I wanted. An extra gift, if you don't mind."

Alex shook his head.

"Good." Vaughn held out a hand. "Let's keep walking."

Alex stared at the offered palm, confused again. After that response, he couldn't expect Alex to accept such an intimate thing. But it was chilled here, winterous even with the artificial heat, and Alex had never held hands with someone beyond his childhood. He'd wondered about it when he glimpsed couples. Wanted to know what it felt like. He'd said  _I don't know;_ wasn't it enough to establish some boundary to the act? After all, it would be impolite to decline. After all, it was his birthday.

Tentatively, he took Vaughn's hand. A heated grasp, powerful, gentle, enveloped him. His heart raced.

Something changed that February night. But March came. And like an envious, jilted lover, she swallowed everything that could have been.

 

* * *

 

It was not so much a mistake as it was an accumulation of inevitable trends—his absence of social interaction, his reserve at work, the uneven pace of his professional progress, and most significantly, the convenience of his inability to match the criminal blade.

Of course, Alexander Davis-Myeong knew to appear innocuous. He passed as an elite mind, not a matchless one. As far as his professional record went, he was impressive, worthy of recognition—but not a second Astrid Nnamani. It was only a stray thought and a few idle hours in the afternoon that led Regina Kalengar to look into his early days, his college research and internship projects and academic reviews, and that was when the inconsistencies beckoned her intrigue.

Regina was true to her pedigree from the Sky. She did not believe that anyone born from the inferior genes of the Ground could outwit the most brilliant network architect they had produced in decades—unless, of course, said architect was playing both roles. Coupled with his month-long history on the Ground, where he had plenty of time to develop sympathies, he should have made the list of suspects long ago. But word went that he curried favor with the High Council—and who dared infringe on the decisions of the Council?

No one, except those who intimately knew those decisions were not always correct or absolute. Regina knew. Her husband was a Regent. For all his superior talents, her husband was fallible, human—and therefore, so too were the ones shielding Myeong. The politics of it were not important. She was an investigator, one of the State's very best, and it was a matter of pride and purpose to unearth the truth.

During her private two-week investigation of the young architect, she consulted no one. She would not have that avenue shut down before she had swept through the crevices. Day through night, knowing the network was his domain, she monitored his whereabouts and activity in person, jotting physical notes instead of digital ones, scanning a copied set just in case. She trailed him sleeplessly, the possibility of his criminal activities arousing an obsessive intent. But had it not, had raw instinct not latched her onto him inseparably, she might have missed it.

One rainy March evening, she saw him leave for the Ground in an unregistered falcon from an unmonitored warehouse. It was difficult to tail a man in a falcon, especially into a place where falcons were rarely seen. In keeping a wide distance, she soon lost sight of him—panicked briefly, but with experience, eventually found him docking on a high and abandoned upper deck. She parked her own vehicle only after he had gone down to the bridge below, then spent a while longer catching sight of him again. After this, she attributed the ease with which she kept his trail to her own skill, and thought not much of it.

Myeong went by foot the entire time, avoiding people and open spaces. Eventually, he began a series of turns into a dirty clutter of alleys, and Regina began to conspire theories of hidden bases—except then she rounded the corner of a narrow street and found him stopped, waiting for her.

Her hand went to the tranquilizing gun beneath her jacket.

He said, calmly enough, "Your clothes are not discrete. You'll tip them off."

She narrowed her eyes. "Them? You mean the rebels you've been working with?"

He was quiet a moment. If it was surprise, she couldn't tell.

"The ones I've been investigating, you mean."

"Your role is remote. You have no license for Ground investigation. You understand how this looks, Myeong—how everything about you looks in this context."

"It doesn't matter," he said, unphased. "My priority is the System project. I'm doing whatever it takes to find the decryption key, even if it means stepping over my boundaries." He paused. "I'm sure you understand that."

Regina shook her head, a cold smile curling. "You're coming back with me. You can explain to the Council what you were doing down here."

He frowned. A moment passed.

"Fine," he said eventually.

Cautious, Regina escorted Myeong back to the abandoned deck. He made no motion to run, or to communicate on any devices. When she directed him into her vehicle, he went without argument. In her experience, docility was dangerous. So once they were seated, she locked the doors. The audible click triggered a faint movement in his jaw; in the same moment, she pulled out her tranquilizer and aimed it at him.

Her finger was on the trigger, pressure marked, pulling. He must have known it was coming, because with a speed she didn't know he had, Myeong dodged. The needle crashed into the window glass behind him.

"What—what are you doing?"

She clicked the maneuver to reload a second dart. "Don't take—"

The question was a distraction. Between its words, Myeong had pulled a knife out from under his jacket. He slashed it through the underside of her arm, and she shouted, grip loosening on her weapon. She struggled to get her aim back, but dealing with a desperate, inexperienced fighter in confined quarters was chaos. The gun slipped.

Two things registered next. First—that Myeong, reaching for the tranquilizer when he had a knife in his hand, was not trying to kill her. Second—that he was weak. Against her trained strength, even against her damaged arm, he crumbled when she lunged over him. For a moment, she gazed at his wide eyes and trembling lips—afraid. Terrified. For a moment, she was distracted by that stripped expression.

One moment was all it took for him to knee her between the legs and upset her balance. His knife hand escaped her grasp, cutting her palm as he pulled away. He thrust the blade through her uninjured arm next, pinning it into the leather seat. She screamed and clawed at the pain.

Myeong scrambled out from beneath her and reached for the fallen gun. She grasped the hilt of the embedded knife. By the time she tore out her weapon, he was still struggling to make sense of the tranquilizer in his shaking hands. She lunged at him as he took aim, and with a vicious shout, pierced the blade through his gut.

He gasped, a small, shocked sound.

She ripped the knife out. Blood sprayed between them. Before she could lift her arm to strike again, the air caught in her throat. Hazed, wheezing, she reached for the new sting at her neck.

"I'm—I'm sorry," whispered a hoarse voice.

Then the second needle sank into her chest, and her vision went black.

 

* * *

 

The blood gushed from his stomach in hot pulses, jarring against the onsetting chill. Hypovolemic shock, Haneul had said, when his November patients of 2576 had come into the clinic near death. The investigator—he didn't even know her name—her hair, it was the same color as his mother's. Her face kept appearing between the flickers of his eyelids, pale in the shadows of that midground storage room. He tried to think in the logic of the network, bloodless and reasonable, but this was difficult when his lungs filled with the taste of copper and his hands slicked with wet life.

He was going to lose consciousness if he did nothing, and likely die before anyone found him. If he moved, he would more likely die, and sooner than if he waited. He didn't want to die. Couldn't die yet. Needed help. But between his connector and his burner, which one did he reach for? Which one minimized the risks? Which did each choice lead?

He was scared. Quickly losing the blood supply to navigate his thoughts. A wave of dizziness hit him, hard, and he tossed logic aside. By instinct, he placed his call.

An endless tune echoed.

"Please," he whispered. "Please..."

_"Cheonsa?_ "

Alex closed his eyes at the sound of that voice.  _Cheonsa_ —it was only a codename in this context, so that if anyone else ever dialed from the burner, Alex's identity would not be given away. But if it was the last thing he heard, he wouldn't regret it.

He breathed through his shivering teeth and said, "I think I'm dying. Can you help? I'm on the par—parking deck over Area 12..."

There was the shortest pause, followed by rushed motion. " _What happened?_ "

"Investigator tailed me. She's—unconscious. Wounded—"

" _What happened to you?"_

"Stabbed. Lower right—right abdomen. I...there's a lot of blood..."

Haneul sounded very calm in whatever he said next. Some set of instructions. Alex followed, or not; he couldn't retain details, and before Haneul had arrived, he was out.

Some time later, he vaguely processed pain, the ground moving beneath his body. A familiar voice murmured while soft ice, or skin, pressed over his cheeks and down his jaw. He fell out of consciousness again.

He was in a peculiar state when he next woke. The metal and sterile air registered on his tongue with a distinct clarity; so, too, did the sprawl of a steel ceiling, dimmed lights, the layout of an inpatient room from the new clinic. His limbs felt melted into a haze, like the edges of his thoughts. He thought he was on a chemical high, because he felt no pain. But then his gaze turned leftward, and a throb stung his heart.

Haneul was there, asleep in a chair. Beside him, a glass of water was drained to the last inch, a sandwich half-eaten on the stand. Alex reached for his hand, fingers stretching until they hovered a brush away. But he couldn't touch. The last time he'd seen Haneul resting peacefully was that early November '76 morning, when Alex had awoken before the doctor to find him curled on the couch.

So he withdrew his hand. Shifted where he laid and smiled at his company. There was a peace swelling in his chest he hadn't felt in years, and for once, he disregarded the stringent timeline of his reality. He closed his eyes and fell asleep again too.

When he woke next, it was to sound. A soft, patternless beeping of the machines wired to his intravenous fluids. His doctor stood at his bedside, adjusting the dosage, or something in that manner. Alex blinked awake, then watched him scan that monitor screen. Their eyes met on accident, the doctor's gaze caught while it drifted.

It was a slow moment. A long one. The tubing of an injection rested upheld in Haneul's hand for some time before he set it down at last, and smiled this tired curve. He said, "Welcome back."

Another moment passed.

"Thank you," said Alex.

The words were soft, voiceless in his dry throat. Haneul turned for the water glass behind him, refilled some time while Alex had been asleep. He maneuvered the bed to a 145 degree angle and held the glass to Alex's lips, and though Alex had the strength to drink it on his own, he didn't protest at the offer. When the glass was back upon the stand, Haneul returned to his adjustments on the monitor screen.

"I'm easing out your dose of amphedroslyne," he said, as if it meant anything to Alex. Alex knew he was filling the silence for now. "You'll have your clarity back in another three or four hours. Maybe a sting too, but I have some pills you can take for that." He paused, still looking at the screen. "There was some intestinal damage. You'll be okay though. The blood loss was worse, but we managed alright. Give it another twenty-four hours, and you should be able to pass as normal."

"What time is it?"

"A bit past five. Saturday."

"Five in the morning?"

"Afternoon."

A pause. "Well," he said eventually, "it's a good thing I came on the weekend." He paused again, trying to remember important matters. "And the investigator?"

"We found her," said Haneul.

"How is she?"

The doctor was quiet. His gaze fell, then flickered toward the farther side. "She died. Collapsed carotid artery."

The words took a moment to register. The sluggishness of these drugs, perhaps. Alex shook his head, trying for that clarity Haneul promised in three to four hours. He couldn't quite get it.

"I..."

The bed shifted. A hand covered his arm. He looked up at Haneul, now sitting, who said softly, "Don't, Alex. It wasn't your fault. You nearly lost your life trying to keep hers, didn't you? I..." He looked away. Swallowed. "We nearly lost you."

Alex looked down again, the words lost on him. He couldn't think straight. He'd killed someone.

Bloodless revolution?

He was a murderer.

"I...I didn't..."

Haneul inhaled sharply. Then his warm, callused hand was holding Alex's cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. He was suddenly too close, his presence momentarily chasing away everything else. A vulnerable noise hitched in Alex's throat, and he gripped Haneul's wrist, afraid that he would disappear.

"Her death isn't on you. Do you hear me? Alex."

Alex shut his eyes. Shook his head.

Haneul pulled him against his chest, a full embrace, and that heat, pulse, memorized scent enveloped him. Suddenly nothing made sense—not the guilt against the warmth, the pain against the comfort, the haunt of a nightmare against the sensation of a dream. Unable to restrain it, a sob broke through his lips, and lips turned into his hair. A hush, an unrelenting hold.

"I thought I lost you," whispered Haneul.

Alex clutched at the fabric of his blue scrubs, wanting never to let go. And as the thought echoed in his head, over and over, calming the wracking of his shoulders, he remembered why it was impossible. Why a woman was dead. 

The code. The Tree. The Sky.

His grip loosened. So did Haneul's arms slip. They pulled apart.

Alex wiped the tears from his eyes and looked around the room. A crack on the wall, old handle on the door. This was the Ground. This was reality, time ticking, mistakes waiting to be fixed.

"I have to get back," he whispered. "I need to retrace her steps. Clean out anything incriminating before—"

"Alex, no. No, look at me."

He looked at Haneul, who had gripped his wrists. Haneul shook his head.

"Stay."

"I can't," said Alex. "I need the Sky's resources—"

"Please."

Their eyes locked. Haneul swallowed.

"Please,  _cheonsa_."

"Haneul, I—"

A breath. Alex quieted, because the stagger of it nearly foreshadowed what came next.

Haneul said, "You once asked me if I called you that because I thought you belonged far away from this place. No, Alex. I wrote that word in my notebook because you—you were the light that illuminated everything beautiful in my life. I became a doctor because I believed that living in a hell like this would have meaning if I could help others, but I didn't feel like it was true until I met you. Do you understand now? You are my light in this life, and I can't let them take you. So please. Please, Alex. Don't go back."

Wordless.

The chemicals, washing through the tubes.

It wasn't fair that in this moment, he could not navigate reality, or those words, or his own heart. Hesitantly, he touched a hand over his wrist, sweeping those knuckles gently, like he could find the remnants of those old Korean characters in them, scrawled that one night into the lines of his journal. The graceful arches, the fluid lines.  _That_  was what he had written?

A syllable caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, and the flood of everything he had carefully suppressed these past two years overwhelmed him. He loved this man. He loved him so much—so impossibly, unbearably much.

And it was why he couldn't stay.

"We are," he murmured softly, "so close to the end."

Haneul began to shake his head.

"You would never forgive yourself," said Alex, "if you threw it away now."

The grip on his hands slackened. Fell slowly to the bed.

Alex smiled, trying to rescue the embers fading from the doctor's eyes. Forgetting why he'd kept his distance all this time, he touched the curve of those cheeks and watched the firewood flicker up. "I'm sorry I made a mistake like this. But didn't I make it? Even if I..." He paused. Shook the hesitation away. "Trust me a little longer, Haneul. Trust me until the end."

"How much longer?"

"Two years. Less than."

Haneul's gaze fell. "It's a long time."

Alex thought of nine years, and the poignant memory of the doctor by his side, watching patiently as his fingers traced the lettering of his midnight journal entry. It still seemed like yesterday, so he shook his head and said, "Not very."

 

* * *

 

In the end, they decided that the investigator's body would be returned to the Sky within two weeks' time, because it was what Alex felt they owed to her and her family. As for Alex, he was home by Sunday morning, his absence unnoted, except for two missed calls from Vaughn. He sent the Regent a message, saying that he had been having malfunctions with his conn, and would he like to get lunch next weekend? When a simple cordial negative returned, that no, Vaughn was busy the next weekend, Alex dismissed the matter as settled.

Monday, word came by of some terrible news. Regina Kalengar, wife of the Regent Marcus Kalengar, assigned to the Ground insurgence investigation, had gone missing. By then, Alex had already learned her identity and dealt with the horror of realizing her connections. His only ease was that she had not shared her suspicions about him with anyone, because come Friday, not a soul had moved to question Alex.

The next week went, and then her body returned home on a Wednesday. There was grief. Fury. A near riot between the towers of Development and Investigation, the Regent Kalengar coming down to demand answers for their incompetence. But aside from that, aside from the guilt it took all his strength to mask, Alex believed he had dodged the bullet.

The next night, almost ten, his doorbell rang.

The notice came while he was in the network, an intrusive script alerting him that it was time to exit. Because he didn't have visitors often, and because there was a fresh investigation into a crime he was guilty of, he ran his emergency protocol before slipping back into the real world. At the visitor interface beside his apartment door, he let out a breath of relief: it was just Vaughn.

He dusted off his nerves and opened the door. Smiled because it was his friend, tentatively because it was an uncommon hour, and said, "I wasn't expecting you."

Vaughn gazed down at him. The mirrored curve that Alex had been expecting did not grace his lips, which remained in a flat, loose line. He reached beneath his jacket and pulled out a folder. "I have something for you."

It was his tone. His eyes. The wear of that manila edge.

Swallowing, Alex stepped back. Vaughn entered and locked the door behind him. He took a sweep of the living space, not his first time in it, and walked his way to the unadorned couch. Still wordless, he stood there and tossed the folder onto the coffee table. Slipped his hands into his pockets and waited.

Alex picked it up. Opened it.

Private investigation notes.

Scanned copies.

Slowly, the blood drained from his skull.

He shut the folder and looked at Vaughn, who had been watching him. "How did you get these?" 

"Council meeting, Saturday," he said tonelessly. "Kalengar's wife hadn't returned home. Didn't leave a message either, or return his calls." Faintly, he arched an eyebrow. "It reminded me of a similar situation."

The missed calls.

"I meant to ask you to lunch," said Vaughn. "I called you again after the meeting. When you didn't pick up, I came here. And when you didn't answer the door, I went to Regina's office."

"Not to mine?" said Alex weakly, though he already knew the answer.

"No," said Vaughn, facing him square. "I went to  _her_ office, to cover your lying ass."

He winced at the frigidity of those words, the rareness of their vulgarity. He looked down and clutched the folder bone white, because he didn't know what he could say to fix this. He was grateful, more than grateful for the collected notes—but it wasn't suppose to have happened like this. The truth wasn't supposed to come out between them like this.

"Vaughn, I..."

"No."

He fell silent. In his peripheral, Vaughn walked around the coffee table, until the chill of his anger was tangible in the air.

"You lied to me."

"I—"

"You've been working with them this whole time, you manipulative bastard."

"No, I didn't—"

"After  _everything_ I've done for you, after all the risks I've taken—after laying my whole damn heart out to you, you couldn't spare me the respect of not playing me like a puppet?"

"I wanted to keep you out of it!" he said, pitched, heartbroken.

"Keep me out of it? I was in it from the start! I was in it from the moment I fell in love with you!"

Alex staggered back. Hearing that from his lips now was suffocating. Unbearable. But Vaughn erased the distance he had made, two steps before his shadow consumed Alex.

"Say it straight, Alex. You just didn't trust me."

"No. That's not..."

"That's not true?" Vaughn gripped his collar. Alex's breath hitched, breaking as the Regent shoved him with every accented syllable. "Then  _why_ didn't you come to me before you killed my colleague's wife?"

Those eyes, vicious.

Screaming  _murderer._

Alex couldn't breathe. He folded his arms over his stomach as if his wound might rupture from the guilt. It must have been apparent on his face: the fury in Vaughn's eyes hesitated at what he saw. Something familiar and soft flashed by. Vaughn suddenly dropped his hold like it was scalding, and stepped back.

Silence fell between them. Long, thick quiet.

"You know what really gets to me?" said Vaughn at last, sounding exhausted. "It's not that you killed her. It's not that you lied. It's not even that you used me."

"I never—"

"It's the autopsy report. What gets to me is that the gun was hers, and the blade was yours, and you—you goddamn idiot, you went for her arms."

And then, slowly, Alex understood.

At the heart of those harsh words was not revulsion. It was fear. A fear borne out of—love. Still. Even now.

"I can't do this anymore," said Vaughn, softer than anything he'd said before.

His voice registered first, welling sorrow in Alex's chest. His words next, bringing the hard, cold dread. Because  _I can't do this_ had a dozen different implications, and Alex glimpsed the prison chambers of the Imperial, the flame of the Ground extinguished.

"Wait. Vaughn. Listen to me—"

"No," said Vaughn, not raising his voice. "You listen to me. This is enough. You're finished with the Ground. You will never go back there again. You will not touch the System again. You're going to give up on whatever world you want to build for him. You're going to walk away from all of that before it's too late. Or I swear to God, Alex, I will take you to Kindle and you won't remember a moment of these last nine years."

Silence.

"What?" whispered Alex. "You'll do...what?"

Vaughn hesitated. He seemed to register the fear in Alex's eyes, seemed to realized what he had just said. He turned away. "I can't lose you." A pause. A humorless, soft scoff. "Though I suppose I never had you to begin with."

Alex shivered. He was still processing. Still recovering from the threat. He wasn't thinking—not well. And the desperate words just slipped from his lips.

"Would it...make a difference if you did?"

Truly, he hadn't meant it that way. Not the way it sounded, some frightened, hesitant offer, like he was selling his love for a price. But that was the way it came out, and that was how Vaughn understood it, his whole body freezing. A damning mistake, daunting in that heavy pause, in the slow, unoiled motions as the man approached him once more. And worst of all: he was too afraid, his mind too strewn, to fix what he had done.

Vaughn spoke, a precarious, stripped, almost-whisper.

"Are you making this into a transaction?"

"I—I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to be involved in this. I didn't mean to kill Regina, or to put you in this situation. I meant to tell you one day, not like this. Not like this. But I can't just stop now, Vaughn. If you could see the hope in their eyes—"

Trembling, Vaughn grasped his shoulders. "Then see mine," he said, his voice harboring shreds. "See what I feel for you. You're making this a transaction?  _This_?"

This—all the painted anger and cold threats fallen from his face. Bare and a breath away, they revealed themselves to be layers, just layers. Behind it all, a torn heart, utterly raw. Now, a whisper away from breaking.

And it was the first time Alex deigned to  _see_.

"I..."

Couldn't speak. No apology for blindness like this.

Vaughn pulled back. Gave him one final look in that honest, broken space of his little apartment, and then walked away. Somehow, Alex knew. One way or another, it was the last time.

 

* * *

 

Friday, Alex went to CyberSec prepared for the worst. But nothing came. No call to the interrogation cells, no order to Kindle Facilities or any other insidious command, not a whisper of a question. No reckoning.

When the work day ended, he pulled out his connector and hovered his finger over a name. But while he deliberated his words, a text came first.  _My place, 7._ He stared at it on the deck for a long while, and then, slowly, made the motions to go. He docked at the high deck of Arleon Tower.

The front doors were opened for him. The living room was empty, the kitchen silent. It was in the bedroom that Alex found Vaughn, sitting hunched over a chair, gazing at his hands. He lifted his head when Alex stopped beneath the frame, some unreadable shadows in his eyes.

"How was work today?" said Vaughn.

"Good. I had no difficulties." He paused. "Thank you."

There was a last quiet.

"A deal is a deal," said Vaughn. He turned toward the bed. "I want my end of it."

Alex looked down, his gaze catching on the outline of his own fingers. Absently, he brushed the joints. Then nodded, once, and stepped inside the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN (Warning): Here on out, we'll be seeing some ugly content, both explicit and implicit. If you've been lulled by the past few chapters (months) of fluff, just be prepared for a deep dive down the dark end. 
> 
> But! Good news - the rewrite of Black Marion is now complete! I'll continue posting weekly updates as I work on final sentence-level edits. 
> 
> In the meantime, I'll also be posting weekly updates of my M/N erotic fantasy epic, Azurasi. If you've liked BM so far, you might enjoy Azurasi too; while it isn't sci-fi, it has many similar elements—love triangles, borderline obsessions, pretty intense love, amnesia, a wicked smart MC, world-changing events—with a ton more explicit sex. Azurasi's lead is also intersex/nonbinary (was male in the original), but in all fairness, all my m/m leads (Alex/Anjie/Leika/Vhan) have all been somewhat nonbinary. 
> 
> For my Red Crane readers wondering why I'm posting a new story when RC is incomplete - worry not! Azurasi's first part is written and complete. My sole writing priority is now Red Crane, and aside from minor edits of BM/Azurasi when I post those updates, Red Crane has my dedicated attention.


	27. 27

It was a rotting wound, begging to be cauterized.

At least this was how Alex saw it in the beginning, and unable to hurt the man, he did things gently. Let the bedroom door shut and walked to where he sat. Ignored the depthless cold in those eyes and touched his cheek. Leaned down and kissed him, because that was how a man made love, wasn't it? Expressed, first, the gentleness of his intent and the welcome of his body.

To Vaughn it was a bargain. This, for turning a blind eye. But Alex hadn't meant it that way, had meant to say that Vaughn  _did_ have him, a part of him, a part of his heart. So he cupped the man's face and kissed his lips, wishing to fix the rupture between them, wishing to make love instead of sell sex.

But after only a moment, a hand shoved him back.

Vaughn stared at him flatly. "Take off your clothes."

Numb.

Alex lowered his gaze. His fingers skimmed his sweater, the soft cotton cutting. After a moment, he did as he was told. Without looking at the man, he stripped to his skin, folding each piece neatly on the floor as he went, as if the smooth tucks of the fabric could retain for him some stability. He glanced over only when he was done, seeing Vaughn stare with painful passivity at the scar along his abdomen. After a moment, the Regent blinked slowly and pointed at the floor by his feet.

"Kneel."

He went. Knelt, the polished floor chilling his knees. He could feel the heat of the legs at his sides. Traced the line of those trousered thighs to the soft bulge at his crotch, to the buckle of his belt, glistening in the light. Alex lifted his hands, willing them steady. Reached for the silver latch, and then hesitated.

"Vaughn, it doesn't have to be like this."

"Scared?"

He looked up. Nearly winced at the foreign eyes which met him. "No, what I mean is..."

A hand grasped his jaw. Not harsh, but not  _him_. When that pressure strained his throat and that thumb grazed his lower lip, those eyes still utterly unfamiliar, Alex realized that this wasn't Vaughn. Not his Vaughn. Not since he'd left his apartment last night. It was a fragment, a broken shred.

"Are you backing out?" The Regent cocked his head faintly. "Should I call the Council?"

A part of the act.

Not real, that threat. It couldn't be. Alex refused to believe it.

But it tore his heart nonetheless, and he looked down, silent, and undid the buckle of the man's belt. What he found beneath was as withered as the warmth between them. Vaughn released his jaw. Alex leaned forward, and gently, took the man into his mouth.

He didn't know what he was doing. But he tried to be good. If Vaughn would not let him kiss, then maybe here, in these gestures, he could show that it wasn't all empty. And slowly, his lover's want did harden. Alex closed his eyes and reached between his own naked legs, grasping at the pleasure he needed to get through this.

Maybe the heat of the moment cast the illusion. A voiceless exhaled heaved above Alex. A hand in his hair, the edge of a thumb tracing his cheekbone. Almost gentle. After a moment, that hand dropped, and a husked voice said, "Get on the bed."

He did. Watched as Vaughn took a minted bottle from the drawer top and joined him, still dressed. He had no illusions about who the lubricant was for, wouldn't have expected it differently, but it suddenly seemed a daunting trial. To take someone else, a breadth and width like that, into his body—to let himself be torn open so that he could pleasure another—an act of love, surely, but his blood went cold as the shadow of his partner covered him.

He turned onto his belly and pressed his forehead to the sheets. Closed his eyes, breathing.

He would be lying to himself if he thought he felt no shame. As for the rest of this ugly pit in his stomach, all buried below the prepared heat—it writhed, threatening bile, but he couldn't quite distinguish what it was.

Nothing happened at first. Then the sound of a breath, unsteady, and hands brushing his hips. Fingers skimming the curve of his bottom, grazing his thighs. With some distant relief, he realized Vaughn was not as cold as he had been. It could be the lust. For Alex, too, there was some strange sensation as the man touched where he'd never been touched. A flutter in his stomach as firm hands kneaded into his ass and stretched at the edges of his entrance.

Briefly, those hands withdrew. A cap opened, closed. Something cool touched his rim. Teased it, maybe, before a finger eased inside. No pleasure—it simply made him feel strange. Vulnerable. Pained as the one turned into two, then slowly, gently, three. And then his touch curved, reaching somewhere, and Alex arched his back and exhaled a quiet sound.

A moment later, he felt that hand on his hip. A hard, hot pressure at his entrance. He grit his teeth and bore, a grunt slipping as the girth passed inside. His eyes stung from the pain, and from the unexpected lack of it. Vaughn was gentle. Impossibly patient. As he had been, always had been, treating Alex with such care.

But strangely, partway in, the Regent froze.

Alex opened his eyes. He looked over his shoulder, not quite able to see. Worried, he reached back for Vaughn's arm. Barely grazed a soft dusting of hair before he was slapped away.

With a harsh shove, Vaughn thrust the rest of himself inside. Alex gasped in pain.

He had no time to recover before his lover rammed him again. Again. All patience lost, a hard rhythm building. His hands scrambled for the sheets, nails curling in like his grit teeth, trying not to scream. Soon his voice spilled out regardless, cries he tried to disguise as pleasured moans. He should have known—he fooled nobody. But the hard, empty fucking went on anyway, until he felt like nothing but a body. Nothing but a husk bought for a price.   
  
  


* * *

  
  


In the morning, he woke to a silhouette at the edge of the bed, facing the rousing cityscape. He could not remember falling asleep, but he could remember the hours of early morning ticking as the rounds passed. In the end, it stopped being about pleasure. Just exhaustion. Just using up everything they both had inside.

He could barely move his body. Every inch of it ached. But Vaughn was sitting with his back bare, gazing lonely at the window glass, and Alex wanted to cover his shoulders. Wanted protect them from the cold, bitter air.

He crawled over. Pushed upright at the man's back, and touched his arm.

"Vaughn," he said, hoarse. "Vaughn. I'm sorry."

Vaughn lifted his head faintly. His expression did not change. "Sorry for what?"

"Everything," said Alex. "I'm sorry for lying to you. I'm sorry for saying the wrong words. Last night, I—"

"You were very compliant," said Vaughn. His eyes drifted over at last, not as chilled as they had been, but dried of emotion. "He's worth that much to you, is he? So much you'd let another man rape you."

Alex pulled his hand back, stung.

"That isn't what happened."

"Isn't it?"

"Vaughn, you're misunderstanding—"

"And you're still playing games."

"I'm not—"

"I don't care," said Vaughn, rising. He went to pick up his shirt from the chair. "I don't need you to pretend you want me. I don't need you to kiss me or apologize, or act like you don't feel sick at the thought of me. I'll turn a blind eye to your lies, just like you want me to. And in exchange, you're going to let me fuck you until I get tired of you."

"You...you don't mean that, Vaughn."

Vaughn didn't answer. He began to head for the door.

"No," said Alex, scrambling to the edge of the bed, trying to catch him before he was gone. "No, Vaughn, just hear what I have to say. Please—you still had plausible deniability! I didn't want to put you in danger. I didn't want to make you choose my life over yours! I—"

_Love you too._

The door had shut. He was alone.

With a breath and a tremble, Alex curled over the covers and cried.  
  
  


* * *

 

It was too late for words.

So as the days went by, Alex fell into silence. He did small things to ease the harshness of their arrangement—a gentle touch here, a chaste kiss there. A pastry brought from the lower Sky shops on his way over to the apartment. Vaughn never returned to the person he was, but in time, he held Alex a little more gently. Savored his body instead of swallowed it whole. Though when the act was over, he would always fall cold again.

Half of his nights were spent with the Regent. The other half, he worked on the last fragments of his final project, fearing that he could walk past the edge of Vaughn's tolerance any day. With things as they were, he made no more trips to the Ground in '85, communicating solely through MM's comm units. There was a limited number of calls each device, and coming upon his last ones, he saved the dials for emergencies. It was not before he explained that he was doing this to minimize risk, and framed as such, Haneul made not a syllable of protest.

The New Year came. Alex had spent the first eve with his father, who hosted a small gathering of close friends and family. His grandparents were there. Director Demari was there. His father's girlfriend would have been there, but they had broken up recently. Sometime among the celebrations, his father pulled him aside and asked him, not so subtly, about his unspoken relationship with Vaughn Scio. He disapproved of what he suspected it to be, of course—their ages were far out of sync, he warned, and man of the High Council was a dangerous involvement. But Alex could only smile and assure him that Vaughn was good man, the right man, and he'd never, ever hurt Alex.

The next night, his good man summoned Alex to Arleon Tower.

They talked about their holidays over dinner. These days, light conversation was manageable. Some moments, both of them would forget about where they stood with each other, and an old ease would lapse. Those never lasted long though, and long, empty silences were frequent. But even the silences were better than the eerie moments when Vaughn truly seemed to have lost his mind.

Like tonight.

"I should have a meal with your father sometime," he said, idly, after Alex mentioned his earlier gathering.

"He's a good conversationalist," said Alex, for lack of a better response. He couldn't imagine why Vaughn would want to speak with him.

"And what does he like in conversation?"

"Friendly political debate, as long as it doesn't involved matters of the Ground. The latest corporate gossip. Humor, as long as isn't too insulting. But I'm sure you could engage him with anything."

"It's his approval I'd want. I can hardly propose to you without it."

Alex looked across the table. Vaughn lifted his gaze too. Their eyes met, hanging for a strange, disembodied moment. And then Vaughn seemed to realize what he had just said, and looked away with a soft, "Ah."

They didn't talk after that, not until they went to his bed. And then Vaughn tossed him a large bottle of dense champagne with a separate one in his own hand, saying, uncelebratory, "Happy New Year."

Alex watched him twist out the stopper of the bottle with his bare hand. Watched as he tossed the drink back in long, heavy swallows, the seconds ticking by, endless. Watched, faintly horrified, as he dropped an empty bottle to the hardwood floor. Vaughn gazed down at him for a moment, and then reached for Alex's untouched bottle.

Dangerous. Alex scrambled forward, catching Vaughn's hand as he removed the second stopper. "Vaughn, stop. That's enough—"

Vaughn looked down. Arched an eyebrow. "Open your mouth."

Alex inhaled. Softly, "Vaughn, you're not..."

"Go on."

He looked down, wondering how he had driven the man to this point. Ah, but he knew the answer. It was love. Love, shorn and mutilated and festered like an illness.

Vaughn, perhaps tired of waiting, took his jaw and forced his mouth open. Alex grasped at Vaughn's wrist, eyes wide as the man tilted the full bottle over his lips. He tried to shake his head out, spluttered as the cold liquid hit his throat. Only for some short seconds, and then the alcohol spilled over the corner of his mouth. Vaughn poured the bottle over Alex's body, the cool dripping with a thick scent down his throat, his collar, soaking into the fabric of his clothes. When it was empty, he tossed the bottle aside and twined his fingers in Alex's wet hair, leaned down to kiss the alcohol from his skin.

Alex shivered. Closed his eyes. He slid his arms around his lover and held onto his warm body, and rocking beneath him later, gasped softly through the conditioned pleasure. It didn't hurt. Not anymore.

An intoxicated murmur swept his skin. "Sasha," he said. "Oh, Sasha."

Afterward, he laid beside Alex and watched him expressionlessly. Alex reached for his face, thumbed the empty tears from his cheek, and leaned forward to kiss his temple. Just as he began to withdraw, Vaughn grasped the back of his neck and kept him there, nose to nose.

"You're staying here."

Alex nodded.

"You're mine."

His gaze flickered from Vaughn's eyes, tired.

"Move in with me."

Alex didn't protest. Couldn't. Come morning, he pretended he heard no such thing, but prepared to make a last trip to the Ground. One week later, a sober Vaughn brought up his demand again, and Alex obliged. But before then, he had to see Haneul one more time.   
  
  


* * *

 

Something was different about the metal clutter and hued smog air when Alex saw it in 2586.

Nothing particular had changed, except maybe him. Walking through the old and cultured streets, he felt a new ache about the smallest things—like the rust in the corner of the restaurant sign, the dust on the canopy of the merchant's fruit stall, the dozen layered graffiti on the old steel apartments. He didn't feel pity about them; his hurt was a different sort, like watching the stars in the sky and understanding infinity in the uncountable lights.

Maybe it was all the sleepless nights of the last year, hurting while his lover's heart festered and eyes hollowed. The weight of what he'd lost seemed to illuminate the worth of what he still had. When he looked at the pigments of the Ground, he no longer saw rot or pollution or hell, but the hallmarks of human endurance. He saw Haneul: perpetually beaten and crudely collected, metal clutter in his restless motion and hued smog in his indecipherable journals, but still so hellbent on staying human.  And for how much he loved that man, how could he not, too, love the Ground?

All this time, he had thought so little about what drove him. In the beginning it was a desire to save the doctor. Then it was Vaughn's sky-cast eyes which showed him the possibility of what could be. To do what was right, to take the opportunity of an era—it had seemed like the drive was simple moral obligation. But maybe, all this time, it had been love.

Thinking this, he suddenly felt at peace about a lot of things. He felt ready to take on what came next. No matter the heartbreak. No matter the pain. And with softness in his heart, he went on inside the doctor's clinic to say his goodbyes for a time.

He found Haneul cleaning up an operation room, alone.

He was at the doorway, pulling his scarf below his face, when Haneul glanced up. Once briefly, and then again, frozen. The towel in the doctor's hand fell limp upon the table.

"Alex."

It was so good to see him again that Alex smiled, truly smiled, for the first time in—he didn't know.

"Hello."

Haneul took two uncertain steps toward him. He looked unbalanced.

"Are you...what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you," said Alex. He folded his hands in front of himself. "It was safe to come tonight. And I have something to show you."

"Is it..."

Alex nodded.

Haneul paused.

"You're going back?"

"Before morning. I have some time."

"Have you eaten?"

Alex smiled. "Yes, actually."

Haneul's eyes traced over his body, then lingered on his face. "You look..." He paused. "Healthier."

The product of so many nights with Vaughn, and those meals the Regent carefully prepared despite his own heartbreak. It didn't escape Alex that Haneul chose such a deliberate word, because  _well_ would not have been appropriate. But Alex kept smiling regardless, and said, "A fortunate byproduct of some lifestyle changes. Have you eaten?"

Haneul nodded. "Let me change. Then we can...wherever you'd like."

"Okay."

Haneul walked toward the door. Alex stepped aside the frame to let him by. But as the man passed, his own breath hitched. He reached for the doctor's sleeves and pulled him into an embrace.

Haneul was steady. Smelled like the chemicals of his clinic and the rust of the Ground. Hard from muscle and bone, but warmer than anyone else, until the soft heat settled like a blanket. The pulse in his throat, by Alex's cheek, a rhythmic lull—quick? Or slow? Or no pace at all—no time.

Alex shut his eyes and held on, as if this could last forever.

Arms slipped around him, tentatively becoming firmer. He felt his hair tangle and a weight on his shoulder, a breath across his skin. No words.

Some time later, they broke apart. Haneul changed into streetwear. They rode his rider to a post near midground, where the resistance's network ports were hidden. Alex led Haneul into the private, sprawling space of his own platform and showed him a wide and isolated field. At its center, a cylinder of moving code flexed, the undulations as soft as breathing.

"This?" said Haneul.

A white ripple ran through the indecipherable black lines, like vibrations from the echo of his voice. She shifted and warped, and in moments, took the doctor's image.

"It's me," said Haneul, seeming struck.

Alex reached forward and brushed the mimicking doctor's cheek. The lines, white when active, had returned to black in their neutral state. At his touch, they ran white again and rewired until the figure was shorter, thinner—Alex.

"She's variable," said Alex. "It's an unintended side effect."

"This? Is a side effect?"

"Of being living code, yes. I believe it's the only form that can deconstruct the entire System. I don't think it's possible for anyone to do it manually. Nnamani wrote the Tree's root code to be self-grown and adaptive, and it's evolved beyond our capacity. The scorch code itself is comparable to snipping hairs off a head, but to shut off the brain itself is different game." He brushed a loose white strand behind the figure's ear. The outline of two eyes turned his way. "She can do it, though. She's twice as adaptive. Well, Astrid has a century's start on her, so I still need to install some tricks, but we're coming toward endgame."

"You did this in three years."

"I had time. And back when I was trying to translate the code, I learned a lot of useful things."

"It took Nnamani decades to build the System."

"I read her research."

Haneul shook his head. After a moment, he gestured toward the code again, which had wandered some steps away and was gazing off into the distance.

"Does she have a name?"

"Marion," said Alex. He paused, searching for a descriptive. "Black Marion, maybe, if the System is the Astrid Tree." He looked at Haneul and explained, "Marion Castel was the name of her lover. Her inspiration. The Tree would not exist as it is without Castel, but after Nnamani produced it, Castel left her." He gazed at his cylindrical code again. "It's speculation, but I think that in the final years of her life, it wasn't Nnamani's dementia that destroyed all her documentation on the System. There are some fragmented records that suggest she had a dispute over the Tree's implementation with the Council. Maybe she even tried to shut it down herself." He paused, then glanced at the doctor. Faced forward, saying, "Command prompt: Domain controls."

A screen appeared in front of him. He tapped at it for a short time, then turned to Haneul.

"Tell me what you think of her. One word. Korean."

Haneul shook his head faintly, his eyes a soft wonder upon the Alex-silhouette. Said, " _Aleumdaun._ "

Alex locked in the echo.

"That will be her access key," he said. "The domain access is  _Kaluza-Klein_. I'll pass that access over to Bennie as well. But Marion's command access is yours."

Haneul was quiet.

Then, "Am I going to need it one day,  _cheonsa_?"

Alex smiled, but even in the electric signals of the network, he felt his lips hurt. "It's just a precaution, Haneul. There's nothing to worry about."

Haneul looked at Marion, who had dispersed back in her cylindrical shape, asleep. He didn't respond for a time.

At last, he said softly, "There's something I want to show you too."

They left the network and returned to the ground streets of the undercity. Haneul stopped by a charging station for his rider, foretelling a long trip. Alex didn't mind it, happy to hold him for what felt like hours despite the winter cold. Eventually, the cluster of the Ground began to separate. The lights began to darken. The dense weight of the Sky overhead began to vanish. Eventually, in the far distance, Alex spotted—the skyline.

Hazed. Dark. Interrupted by the thick filtration pillars that encompassed the State. But it was the skyline nonetheless, and when they had arrived in the lightless outskirts,  when Haneul stopped the rider beside an unadorned factory, Alex could see the sky and the ground, touching. He stumbled off the bike, wondering if he was awake.

"Alex."

He turned. Haneul was offering a hand. He took it.

They walked to a staircase encircling the factory tower and climbed to the top. There, Alex turned and gazed at the State. The rise of towers, searing high into the night. All this time, he had felt like he was living between two worlds. But here it was: the proof that they lived in the same world. It was overwhelming.

Haneul came to stand beside him. "I used to come here when I was young."

Alex looked at him. Haneul turned too, but not before Alex had seen him watching the stars aside the soaring towers. His head had been tilted to expose the whole expanse of his throat, and he was beautiful looking up, but it seemed like such a strain.

"I used to wonder," he murmured softly, "what kind of people lived in the heavens."

Alex reached out to brush a stray black strand aside his cheek. He didn't mean anything by it. It just seemed like the natural thing to do.

Haneul's eyes cast toward his hand. He reached for Alex's wrist. And with his other hand, he reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a small thing, hidden by the shadow of his palm. He set this gently into Alex's hand. "I wished I could grow wings to be with them."

It was a little bird.

Not alive, but Alex seemed to feel the pulses of a tiny heart thrumming in the straw edges. It was so delicate, so intricate—a hundred fold more beautiful than he remembered of the tiny straw animals in Haneul's old November bedroom. He had a vivid memory then, of not daring to touch the creations. And now here one sat in his palm, absorbing the beating of his heart. He curled his fingers protectively against the wind, feeling a staggering love for this thing that had only an imaginary pulse.

"Haneul," said Alex, because he didn't know what else to say.

" _Haneul,_ " said the doctor. "It means 'sky'."

They looked at each other.

"I..."

That was Haneul, a syllable drifting. Alex waited, but the doctor seemed not to be able to say anything else. It was okay. Alex didn't need anything else. He cupped the bird to his heart and said, "I'll keep her safe."

A breeze drifted by.

Haneul inhaled.

Alex's gaze flickered, a small rupture in his reality as lips touched his. He didn't understand what had happened until Haneul had pulled back, and, catching his own breath, a small, confused noise escaped from his throat. Haneul had kissed him.

Alex touched the hands at his cheeks, his fingers unsteady. Searched those burning eyes.

Whispered, "But...I...what about..."

Haneul shook his head. His gaze fell to Alex's lips again, lashes gently drifting. This time, Alex closed his eyes too, parting his lips to welcome the soft, liquid heat he had almost—almost—forgotten. The crude warmth of the Ground sank through his skin, and overwhelmed by the bursting of his heart, his whole world reduced to this moment.

In fact, it was just simple contact. Alex didn't know the science behind why it felt electric, the creases of his barely dry lips and the graze of his nose, the common scent of the hospital and the Ground, but the surge went down along his spine like it would leave an indelible mark. It was corrosive, burning down the years of illusion that he could be happy without something like this. All of a sudden he was desperate to lose it, and as if Haneul tasted this, his fingers tangled in Alex's hair, his palm sought Alex's pulsing skin, his lips tasted with visceral want. It was nothing like the deliberate, consuming touch of the Regent in the Sky—no, a hundred times rougher, a hundred times softer.

They could have made love that night, there in the ethereal, polluted air of the edge of the world, there after a near decade of longing. But remembering Vaughn, when those callused fingers slipped beneath the fabric of his collar, Alex withdrew. He couldn't let Haneul see the marks on his body.

So he turned his lips to Haneul's jaw, then buried his face against his shoulder. Haneul relented, the heat in his hands tempering to embrace Alex. Lips in his hair, a whisper almost muted.

" _Saranghae,_ " said Haneul, so softly.

Alex turned his head faintly. "What does it mean?"

"Promise me," said Haneul, "that you'll bring this back to me."

The little straw bird, still hidden in his hand, held between their hearts.

Alex nodded. "I promise."

Haneul took his free hand. Led him to the edge of the factory deck, where they sat before the towers and stars. He shrugged off his coat and spread it over Alex, and then pulled him close. Alex laid his head upon Haneul's shoulder, as if he had done it a thousand times before, and listened to the thrum of his pulse. The sigh of his breath. The sound of his peaceful, beautiful voice, sharing a tale from his childhood. It went like this until the dark sky became navy and the cold was no longer cold, until the edge of his words ached as they drew to their close.

Haneul drove him back to the inner sectors, where the layers of old infrastructure divided two worlds again. There they acted as if nothing had transpired, because it was the only way Alex could bear to leave.

He returned to the Sky. 2586 went on.


	28. 28

In the autumn of his fiftieth year, the most beautiful thing that Vaughn Scio had ever seen was the sight of Alex undressed above his dinner table, the dusk light painting the curves of his body, the liquid of a spilled vase drenching the ends of his soft hair, the strewn magnolia flowers accenting the vulnerable pale of his skin. It was a picture he had imagined vagaries of in his darkest dreams, and in life, the poignancy of the details drove him mad. He worshiped his beautiful lover, of course, kissed the offering of his delicate bones, inhaled every breath of his sugared gasps. Took all the pleasure from his body without reservation, and loved him.

Until the sun whittled below the horizon and he remembered that this wasn't love. Not real love. Not even a shade of what it used to be—was meant to be.

The truth was that something had been lost about the purity of what he felt toward Alex in March of '85. And he would have called it pure, his love: it had felt consuming but soft, gentle, truly considerate and capable of selflessness. Envy colored it sometimes, dark and cold and furious. Bitterness gnawed at it in secret. Lust scratched at its boundaries, an animalistic desire to possess something so precious and daunting. Heartache crushed it between two furious palms, and despair pricked a million holes. But still it persisted to be love, and he didn't know why, he didn't know how—he only knew that when it shattered, it shattered beneath all the weight of the universe.

Sometimes, when he slept, he dreamed of waking up from a nightmare. And in his dreams, he'd rush over to see Alex and find his body still untouched, his smile still true. His own mind, still whole. Then he would wake up, and the world would just feel—broken.

Like in the moment of this aftermath, his lover curling on the smeared glass table. Alex pushed upright as if the motion pained him, but when he looked up, his eyes were unaccusing. Waiting to see if Vaughn wanted any more from him. He never complained. Never cried, or acted the victim, no matter how degrading or how harsh the act. Sometimes, in desperate moments, Vaughn wondered if it was because Alex's gentle tolerance was a shred of the love he'd longed for—but he always shut that thought down.

How could a man love someone who bought his body? Who held his life and all that he cared about over his head?

It was all a masterful act, to keep Vaughn sold, to keep his eyes turned. But it worked. Yes—he'd loved Alex so much, that even with his heart corroded, with the integrity of that love shattered, he still wanted desperately to keep him close. It was shameful. It was paradoxical, impossible, cruel, and it tore his sanity apart.

"Vaughn?"

He had been staring for too long.

He touched the plump of those soft lips. How often he had claimed them. He could taste the intricacies of their flavor now, merely by the graze of his fingertips. Ah, how lucky he was. The most fortunate man in the world, to be loved by...

He blinked. Dropped his hand. Stepped back.

Cold and toneless, he said, "Clean this up. I have work to do."

 

* * *

 

In time, a stasis came over their twisted relationship. It was not happy, but it was reliable enough that Vaughn could find moments of artificial satisfaction. Making dinner for Alex was nice. Watching the gaunt of his cheeks fill beautifully was nice. Holding him in bed was nice. Having his soft and unquestioning compliance was lovely.

So he told himself.

In fact, Vaughn was so desperate to believe that this was enough for them that he had forgotten about the one thing he had wanted from the beginning, more than anything else. 2586 came like a cut through his lungs when he was reminded of it.

It was Saturday evening, early January, on the day that Alex made the move from his apartment. That afternoon, he had appeared more fatigued than usual. Vaughn assumed it was because he'd exerted himself packing, or suffered the emotional drain of losing his last freedom from his unwanted keeper. He ignored it through dinner, thinking that a night's rest would recover the man well enough.

In the living room, they spent the usual hours of a post-dinner routine. Vaughn reviewed his Council documents. Alex tapped at his own architectural files, a holographic splay above his lap. Once in a while, Vaughn would look up to see his lover tucked comfortably on the adjacent couch, calm and regular in his home. Like a played fool, he would feel warm about this and resume working.

But at a point, the rhythmic peripheral movement of scripts and holoscreens paused. Vaughn looked up one more time to see Alex watching something outside the near window.

It didn't seem like he was looking at anything in particular. His eyes were not concentrated enough for it, though they swept up the length of the landscape, toward the clear sprawl of the night sky. Gently, his lips curved.

His soft, lovely mouth on his glass skin.

It had been so long since Vaughn had seen him smile like that. Uncontrived, from the heart, beautiful.

When Vaughn breathed too sharply, Alex turned. His lips slid quickly back into their untelling line. His eyes looked alarmed, or caught. He started thumbing through his holoscreens again, as if in a rush to escape.

Escape from what?

Vaughn.

Because this wasn't willing. Because this was all for someone else—someone he'd lie for, die for, sell his body like a whore for. Someone who could draw that smile, someone who had been in his heart since that first August of 2578. Someone Vaughn had never, ever stood a chance against. Not even a sliver.

Ah.

Ah, that fatigue made sense now.

He'd gone to see his beloved doctor last night.

Vaughn stared at Alex, who wouldn't look up. After a moment, he shut off his file screens and tossed his tablet atop the coffee table. He watched the younger man's shoulders tense, fingers freeze over his coding script.

_Pretty when he's scared,_ Vaughn thought bitterly. It brought out an honest vulnerability about him, and honesty seemed so expensive. Always buried beneath his sweet, giving tolerance.

"Let's take a break," said Vaughn, softly.

Alex looked down at his screens. "I'm almost done. Can we—"

Done? With what?

The man was a traitor to the State, after all. A masterclass manipulator with a Regent around his little finger. And Vaughn—he had already given up too much to be told  _no._

He rose. Walked over. Alex began to shut down his screens. He had not finished, his workspace tablet slipping to the floor when Vaughn grabbed his arm and pulled him off the couch. He came with a stumble and a gasp, no protest as Vaughn dragged him into the bedroom and threw him onto the bed. Vaughn turned to lock the door and flip on the lamp.

"Vaughn," said Alex, as if trying to placate him, "you're angry. Let's stop and talk—"

"I'm going to hear you scream tonight."

Alex fell silent.

Vaughn stepped forward.

Alex slid backward on the bed, a small motion, retreating. He spoke very quietly. "You're not yourself. Just take a moment. I'll wait—"

The harsh jostle of a belt clamp quieted him again. Fear flashed in his wide eyes. That was right—this was how it was supposed to be. No masks. No play-pretend. No manipulation. The hard, honest truth.

"I am myself," said Vaughn, "and so are you."

He did as he wanted—everything to make it real, make it forceful and awful. Alex seemed not to know if to fight, to beg, or to take it until it was over. For once he did not play the role of the lover, and when he screamed, it was this strangled, grieving cry that should have pulled Vaughn back to his senses. But lost to the high of a dark lust and a mad envy, he went on harder until it was over.

And when it was over, he looked down at what he had done. His lover laid limp on the stained sheets, motionless but for the little spasms that wracked his shoulders. It was the first time he didn't touch Vaughn, not a single graze to assure him that it was okay.

It was honest, wasn't it?

And so wrong—so utterly wrong—that Vaughn wanted to be sick. He suddenly didn't understand how he could have done this. He only inhaled the metallic ruptures from the man he loved, cheeks stained with salt and legs with red, and he had never hated anything quite as much as he hated himself. Desperately—and really, the first time that he had been utterly desperate—he thought that this couldn't go on.

But if it could go back. If he had a second chance. If he could do it all over again, he would never let it come to this.

 

* * *

 

Though as long as the resistance persisted, a second chance was only a second chance to lose.

A few days after that brutality, Vaughn arranged a meeting with the Council to discuss an adjustment in their approach to the Ground affairs. Previously, the grieving Regent Kalengar had wanted to suspend Grounder rights to expedite the investigation, and Vaughn had been the foremost objection which shut down that track. Since then he knew he had lost himself, not a shade of the man he used to be. But he had lost Alex too, was losing more of him by the day, and though Alex played a tame front, Vaughn knew that time was running out. So in February, the Council began a new mode of investigation.

The Sky took up arms. Down on the Ground, daily patrols in weaponized vehicles daunted the masses. Guards raided at each whisper of suspicious report and System activity ran off the charts. Sometimes, a few Grounders would be caught for interrogation for little more than show. Casualties hiked.

None of it was directly effective, but what it did do was open the door for their DSS investigators to capitalize on the terror. Though resentment rose against the Sky, resentment for the resistance also began to spread. Whispers came more freely. April, at long last, one of Vaughn's personal agents caught a lead—a man by the name Peter Kozlov, who had been among the people arrested with the Tagged doctor back in 2582.

They brought Kozlov up to a private midground station, where, while Kozlov pissed his pants, Vaughn struck a bargain with him: an altered identity and citizenship in the upper Sky, fully funded, for him, his girlfriend, and their child—all in exchange for one man. Not the resistance. Just a single man.

June, a message came for him. A two-layered gift. An address in the lower Ground, Sector 11, and notice of a planned heist on midground, at the warehouses of Sector 19, Area 42 Eastern.  _That_ man would go, as often he tended to. If successfully isolated on midground, his capture would be assured.

Vaughn made his preparations. There was no room for error. This was it. The moment he would put an end to this nightmare—the moment he extricated Alex from the haunts of his past, and began a life anew together.

 

* * *

 

Alex had lost Vaughn for good, and this, more than the rape, was what broke his heart.

He had planned things differently before that January of 2586, but in the aftermath of those two critical nights, one on the Ground, one in the Sky, utterly disparate, everything changed. What Alex had with the Regent was beyond saving, and now he needed to prioritize his own survival. He had promised it to Haneul, after all. He'd promised to bring his little bird back to the Ground.

That threat in his '85 spring apartment echoed in his head. Kindle Facilities was dedicated to particular neurological research—brain-state modification sciences, encompassing the memory alterations that no one spoke of. Long ago, Vaughn had admitted that rarely, criminals of even the high Sky would be subjected to memory adjustments there. Never Tagged. Their memories simply—disappeared. At this point, with the Regent so far beyond the border of his sanity, Alex suspected it was only time before he was either turned in, or tampered with.

He spent a few days mulling over the best course of action. He still needed the Sky's resources to finish the last of his adjustments for his Marion, and if he ran now, it really would have all been for nothing. So he planned to stay. He planned for the worst case scenario, laid out steps that would need to be taken to crawl out of it.

Vaughn didn't touch him much after January. Alex went on about things as if it had never happened, less the affection. For all the fear and disgust, he held no resentment; he just had a feeling that showing the man kindness would only trigger his ire. No, the resentment only came when he heard of the raids on the Ground, the terrorizing sweeps—but even then it was not resentment for Vaughn himself. It was resentment for his own callousness. That somehow, he had reduced a man with such powerful aspirations into something unrecognizable.

Time passed, tense, cold. The only reassurance Alex had in the late spring of 2586 was a single message from Haneul that read,  _We're ok, be careful_. He supposed the fact that Haneul had even thought it necessary to send him such a message indicated how far from 'ok' the state of affairs was, but besides reading these words whenever privacy provided him the opportunity, Alex could only play his own role. Meanwhile people died in the interrogation chambers of the Imperial, on the Ground, and come June, the man responsible for their murders strangely deigned to take him to bed again.

One night, lying after a softer tryst, they had a conversation reminiscent of the old days.

"Don't these deaths weigh on you?" said Alex.

Vaughn, redressed and leaning against the headboard, was scrolling along a screen above his connector. "It's comparatively light."

"Comparatively?"

"To the way you look at me about it. Why don't you get some sleep?"

Alex laid back on the pillow and glanced at the canopy. "Comparatively indicates that you still feel something."

"I do. I'd be a sociopath if I didn't, and then we wouldn't be this position now, would we?"

"What do you feel?"

Vaughn hesitated. Alex watched his fingertips hover over the holograph.

"Have you seen a sculptor work at marble? I feel like the marble. The chipping is harsh, but I'm being made into myself."

Alex was quiet. His heart constricted, familiar pressure too ingrained to fight. "But this isn't who you were meant to be," he said softly, staring at the veins of his lover's forearm. "This isn't the world you dreamed of."

"The world I dreamed of is impossible."

Alex lowered his eyes to the shadows upon the sheets. He wished he could redial time. Take those tired hands and bring him to the Ground, show him the layered graffiti of the walls and the endless persistence of old lights. Back when there wasn't blood and shattered glass. He murmured, "You gave up too soon."

Vaughn paused. Then he went on reading, wordless, and Alex closed his eyes. In silence, he began to drift.

"Do you hate me, Sasha?"

Alex lifted his gaze. That name—Vaughn slipped into it every so often, in moments when his coldness vanished. It was gentle, loving, and always accompanied by a touch of madness.

Alex paused. Their eyes met. He said, "No, I don't."

Vaughn blinked, but it could have been a wince. He looked to his screen again.

"You will," he said, and nothing more.

It was such an ominous statement that Alex couldn't fall asleep that night. So after his lover was unconscious, he slipped off the bed and quietly took the man's connector band where it laid upon the nightstand. He brought this to the workroom and plugged it into the network port, and in the sprawl of cyberspace, traced its history. As he had suspected, Vaughn's renewed sexual vigor these past two weeks had not arisen out of nothing—he'd been in contact with a whole array of agents outside the scope of CyberSec Investigation, mostly via unrecorded calls, but the traces indicated that he was plotting something.

With external sensitivity set to high, Alex was alerted by the network of outside disturbance as he caught the script of a familiar name. His blood went cold. But no time, he hurried back into the real world just before the door opened. Vaughn's silhouette appeared below the frame.

Their eyes met. Those silver narrowed, then fell flat.

"What are you doing, Alex?"

Alex's heart pounded. Wordless, he swallowed and disconnected the man's conn band. He held it forward.

Vaughn approached slowly. He picked the band out of Alex's hand and stared at it for a moment. He stared at Alex. And then, he turned and left the room.

Alex listened to his footsteps fade. His mind rushed. Breathing through his throbbing pulse, he scrambled to tear his own connector off his his wrist. He bent it as flat as it would go without breaking, and then slipped it through the slit of his trouser band. His hands were shaking—he barely managed to hide the whole thing inside before Vaughn returned to the room, holding a murky glass of liquid in his hand.

"Drink," said the Regent.

Alex looked at the glass. He dared not ask what it was. Having no other option, he drank, and followed Vaughn back into the bedroom. Soon enough, exhaustion overtook him, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

The next day, he felt unnaturally half-conscious, remembering only a haze of the night before. The one thing he managed to do while Vaughn was absent from the room was dig out a back-up connector from his private belongings and snap it around his wrist. After eating breakfast, Vaughn set a second glass before him and waited until he had downed the entire thing. The haze came back, heavier than before. He was unconscious again within minutes.

The next time he woke, it was night. He tried to leave the bed so that he could leave this place, but Vaughn found him and gave him another drink. Alex refused this time, only to be kissed. Maybe something melted inside his mouth.

He could not keep track of what happened then. All he knew was that he had never been had so many times within the span of a single night, never been so exhausted and high on sex and god knows what else. Something was wrong, but he didn't have the clarity to think about it. His body felt warm and good, and soon, this was the only thing that mattered.

Before morning, Vaughn had him drink a final mixture. He tried to resist this, but he was too tired. When he fell asleep, he thought he heard a soft apology. He was out for a long time.

 

* * *

 

It was the discomfort of a swelling bladder which woke Alex.

He was in Vaughn's bedroom still, alone, with the curtains drawn and the air conditioned an innocuous lavender. Memories of the past nights blurred with fragments of his dreams, and he could not be sure which was which. So he stumbled to the bathroom to relieve himself, only to find his body crusted with dried fluids. The pieces began to distinguish as he ran the shower water, fingers waiting for the temperature to warm. Then it hit. Without bothering to turn the faucet, he ran back into the bedroom.

The clock on the nightstand read 6:43 P.M. It was Monday, June 16th. He was supposed to be at work, but instead, Vaughn had drugged him through the day. When he tried the door of the bedroom, he found it locked.

His head throbbed. Sluggish, it took him a minute to conjecture what was going on. The name he had seen in Vaughn's conn history...the blur of the past forty or odd hours...the relentless sex, like he had been milking the final moments out of a favorite toy...and his connector. His back-up connector was missing from his wrist.

He sank to the floor, scrambling for the trousers that had been discarded unceremoniously in the night. There, in the band, was the conn he'd slipped inside. Back in the workroom, he'd gambled on the thought that if Vaughn was plotting something against the resistance, he'd want to detain or incapacitate Alex before his operation, since Alex had gone through the man's files and had means of contacting said resistance. It was Alex's luck that he wasn't lying strapped to a bed in Kindle Facilities right now, and his luck that he'd wound up in the same locked room as his tossed trousers. And it might be—might be—his luck that it wasn't yet too late.

The conn was low on power. Plugging it quickly to charge, Alex opened the contact screen and flipped aside his missed messages. He called Demari.

The director picked up on two. " _Alex?_ "

"Director," he said, voice blurred from his drugged sleep. "What's going on with the insurgence case today?"

" _What do you mean? I heard you had a high fever. Are you okay? I've been trying to reach_ —"

"The insurgence case," he repeated, harder. "Is there an operation today?"

There was a pause.

" _How did you know_?"

He pressed a hand over his clenching eyes, trying to stave the intense ache behind them. "Where? What time?"

Another pause.

" _It's restricted to upper admin, Alex. I'm afraid I can't_ —"

He dropped the call. A covert operation like this was not investigatory, and if Kozlov was in contact with Vaughn Scio, if he was possibly being coerced to feed them intel...

He needed to get in contact with the Ground. But his connector was useless in this department; its channels were too easily dissected for Alex to risk communications with the Ground, so he had never established a route, and its reach into the lower depths was limited. His only means of contact were the network and MM's comm units, and neither of them were optimal at the moment. The port machine in the house had probably been deactivated as a precaution, if Alex could even get to it, and the network was a slow process that  _might_ allow him to get a message to Bennie in time, if she was in it. No, with so many unknown factors, he could not risk relying on the network. It needed to be the comm unit.

But he had hidden his last unit in his office in CyberSec, afraid that Vaughn would find it if he kept it in the house. Getting there was one thing, but getting there without alerting Vaughn to the fact...

There was no time. He just had to hope the Regent was too occupied, too certain that he'd locked Alex in for good.

He went to the windows with his connector. He tried remote access to his falcon on the Arleon deck first—no good. The falcon had been disabled, no doubt Vaughn's doing. Fortunately, early in the year, he had stored a back-up vehicle in case of emergencies like this. It took an excruciating half-hour for the falcon to arrive on autopilot, and then, hovering it as close to the windows as possible, Alex crawled into the driver's seat—a feat of athleticism he didn't know he had in him, and he very nearly fell to his death trying.

A little before eight, he made it to Development Tower. It was only docking that he noticed the black vehicle in the corner of his rearview screen, a dark man stepping out and striding his way with such intent that Alex's blood went cold. One of Vaughn's men? Almost certainly—if he had drugged Alex, taken his connector, locked him in, disabled his falcon, why not hire an eye to make sure he didn't interfere with this?

"Shit," he hissed, reaching into the compartment below the passenger seat. At this rate, it was seeming like not a single one of his precautions would be extra. He shoved a tranq gun below his jacket and bolted out of the falcon, toward the tower entrance. Sure enough, the man from the tailing vehicle picked up his step.

Alex was not a fast runner. He'd never had the opportunity to develop that skill. And at the late hour, the deck had few passersby to interrupt the chase. By the time he passed the front doors, the man was on him—hand on his upper arm, grip a trained strength. Alex had no time to think, no leisure when he was at such a disadvantage. So he pulled out his tranquilizer and pulled the trigger.

The man stumbled back. As he sank to the floor, a splatter from the left caught Alex's attention. A woman had dropped her coffee, a frozen, wide-eyed witness.

_She'll call security._

Alex inhaled, then aimed his tranquilizer again. The woman screamed and ran. He pulled the trigger. Missed. Missed again. She rounded the corner, and Alex took two desperate steps after her before stopping. He turned back toward the unconscious man who had tailed him, slumped right beneath the hidden camera eye of the entrance. No way he would have time to delete that video evidence.

Just then, Alex felt a strange, deathly calm chill the trembling heat in his skin. This was it. The point of no return.

But only one thing mattered to him right now, and that was Haneul's life.

He turned and raced down the hall, toward the floors upper Development. Three minutes. In drills, it was the average response time before the building went on lockdown. Up to another two minutes before the targeted security measures kicked in. Upper Development held critical data, so the walls were equipped with sleeping gas for fast incapacitation. At most, he had five minutes.

Afraid to be caught in the elevators, he took the stairwell. He had no sooner passed the pristine, white-walled lobby of his workfloor than the screeching alarm sounded. Down the corridor, Judith Sancotte suddenly emerged from the portroom, frowning as she caught sight of Alex.

"Myeong? What's going—"

He shoved past her, toward the offices at the end of the hall. His private cubicle opened at the command from his connector. Another minute off the timer. As soon as he stepped inside the room, he locked the door behind him. He keyed in his passcode for the cabinet, where he dug through computing equipment until he found that small monitor casing. Broke it open, shook it out.

That little straw bird fell into his palm first. After it came the comm device. If he recalled correctly, this one had two calls left. He hoped to god he would only need one of them.

With the bird enclosed in his left hand, the comm held in his right, he dialed.

" _Cheonsa?_ "

Alex exhaled, overwhelmed by relief. He memorized that word, that voice, every lilt and breath of it. Grounded himself in the echo, so that he could speak comprehensibly, calmly. "The Sky is planning a sting operation on the resistance today. I don't know where, I don't know when. You need to get out of the bases and hide."

" _What?_ "

"Peter Kozlov's been in contact with the Council. He's probably been coerced."

A brief pause.

" _Fuck._ "

In the background, Alex heard the halting whir of vehicles and the snap of sharp commands. They must have been en route somewhere. A supply run? It made sense. He let the words pass over his head, focusing on sound—the sound of Haneul's voice—not the sound of the clamor outside, the knocking on his door. He shut his eyes and faced the wall.

"Haneul. I need you to listen to me."

The other line quieted. A stilled silence.

" _Alex?_ "

"I'm not coming back to the Ground for a while."

" _What do you mean?_ "

"Whatever you hear, whatever happens, you have to be calm. You have to stay safe."

" _Where are you? Tell me where you are._ "

Outside, someone called his name. Inside, gas filled the room. He closed his eyes.

"It's going to be okay," he said, or whispered.

" _Alex, god damn it, tell me where you are!"_

"I love you."

" _No_ — _don't you dare_ —"

He closed the line and dropped the comm. A moment later, the little straw bird slipped from his palm, and Alex fell with it, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an: small note about Alex's mention of resenting himself rather than Vaughn for the rape--I'm not endorsing victim blaming! Alex is just...being Alex. 


	29. 29

"So you knew."

In the black marble meeting room of the Imperial, six chairs full and all sharp eyes on him, Vaughn confronted the collapse of his world with a numb calm. With his head upon the executioner's block and his heart chained in the Imperial interrogation chambers, the helplessness consumed all his fury and madness. He felt exhausted. Afraid. A man straddling a wire between the towers of the Upper Sky.

He played his act, because he had to. Because it was the only way he might yet protect Alex.

"I had my suspicions for a time," Vaughn said, "but I did not know until Kozlov confirmed it."

"Suspicions," echoed Josephine Lanis.

"You covered for him when he made his first move," said Noel Kanisorto. "You said he was debriefing his progress with you that night."

"That wasn't a lie," said Vaughn.

Kanisorto narrowed her eyes. "But is that a lie?"

"What I want to know," said Marcus Kalengar, leaning forward, "is whether or not you knowingly protected the slut who murdered my wife."

"I didn't," said Vaughn, keeping his voice even despite the vicious anger at  _slut_. "It's true that I was involved with him. That might have blinded me to some hints earlier on, but once I began suspecting him, I kept him under my watch. He didn't move in with me willingly, I can tell you that. And when I learned of his crimes from Kozlov, I kept him under house arrest. You can check the physical evidence, if you'd like. He's the one who broke out through the windows."

"You kept him under house arrest instead of reporting him to us?"

"Of course," said Vaughn. "We all know what's going to happen to him now. I hoped to come to terms with him more humanely. We were involved for a time, after all." He folded his hands over his lap and gazed at the table. "I'll be honest. I don't like the thought of interrogating him here. I don't know how responsive he will be. But if I could have the opportunity to get the truth out of him my way..."

Kalengar scoffed. "We're not going to hand your lover back to you, Scio. You're mad to think we'd be so stupid."

"He's right," said Kanisorto. "The fact is that we have no way of corroborating your words, except through interrogating Myeong. So we'll see what he says about you. But frankly, it should be of little consequence to us at this moment."

"Pardon?" said Kalengar.

Kanisorto continued. "If you knew, and you lied to us about your lover, then you subsequently allowed for the continued expenditure of valuable resources on this investigation, if not the deterioration of our validity as the ruling power as well. Those would be severe transgressions."

"I agree," said Vaughn, "but—"

"But you've also been foundational for our State since your appointment. You've brought a unique perspective that has allowed us to maintain unprecedented levels of satisfaction across the citizens of the Sky. You've been responsible for nine out of sixteen of our landmark policy changes in the past decade. And, as underwhelming as it seems against what should have been, your operations did capture several key members of the resistance, including Myeong himself. In a roundabout way."

"It sounds like you're suggesting we pardon him," said the Regent Hayashi.

"This is a critical period for the State," said Kanisorto. "If we can spare a valuable resource, we ought to. Since Regent Scio has proven that he is earnestly seeking to quiet the insurgence, I believe that any wayward decisions he has made arise not from ill-intent toward the State, but from personal emotions. Certainly, it calls into question whether his judgment is fit for the Regency, but I believe this next stage will serve as a fine assessment."

Vaughn said nothing.

"I'd be more wary," said Josephine Lanis. "If Regent Scio has been knowingly shielding Myeong all this time, then it's difficult to predict how he will act, no? He's already attempted to persuade us to let him oversee the interrogation."

"Which won't happen," said Kanisorto. "I propose we temporarily suspend Regent Scio's Imperial access rights. Of course, your relationship with Myeong means your insight throughout the interrogation will be useful, but you would be accompanied by one of us at all times. And, of course, you would hold no voting power in all future decisions concerning Myeong."

"I have additional stipulations," said Kalengar. "If the Regent does prove to be...overly committed to Myeong, then we follow the same protocol with him as we do with perpetrators of treason."

The room was quiet. Vaughn held Kalengar's eyes, unthreatened. In fact, he felt oddly unthreatened by anything except the thought of Alex, bound, locked away in the holding cells of this same tower. Out of his hands.

"Overly committed is a vague term," said Hayashi.

"We can determine the definition when it seems relevant," said Lanis.

"Then we all agree with this resolve?"

A round of nods and murmurs passed the table. After it, Vaughn exhaled silently.

"Good," said Kanisorto. "Then let us move on to the matter of Myeong's interrogation. Regent Scio, your vote might be null, but your input is welcome."

"I appreciate it."

"I propose the Massenberg operation with the F30 technique," said Kalengar.

Vaughn tensed, a hard argument on his tongue. Hayashi beat him to it.

"Myeong's a valuable asset, regardless of his crimes. We need him alive for long enough to extract all his knowledge on the System." The man paused, stroking his beard. "Actually, it would be best if we kept him breathing indefinitely. My fellows in Human Science could extract some lovely research from his brain, I'm sure."

"I agree," said Lanis. "He's a rare resource."

"He would be a better asset if he were willing," said Vaughn, trying to sound calm. "I suggest, when he gives us what we need, we use our resources at Kindle Facilities to rehabilitate him."

"It does seem most practical..."

"He's a murderer!" said Kalengar.

"Regent," said Kanisorto, "you'll have more than your share of vengeance by the time his interrogation is over. A better retribution to have a man beg for death, and be denied it, no?"

Kalengar fell silent.

"There is one more consideration," said the quiet August Welks, whose rare voice drew the table's immediate attention. "We must keep in mind that Myeong decrypted the Tree and established a countercode all while maintaining his facade as one of our best architects. He operates with a complexity of mind that rarely graces our chambers... An established interrogation procedure may not work on him, and we should expect layers of false information."

"Then, shall we improvise on the go?"

Welks nodded.

"We should be prepared to be innovative."

"Let's start with the standard procedure then," said Kanisorto. "See what we have to work with. All in agreement?"

Hands lifted.

"Regent Scio?"

Vaughn nodded, and kept his calm through the long night. If ever he felt like he had come to the edge of his composure—which he did—he silently reminded himself this was just the beginning.

The time would be long. At any cost, he needed to see his Sasha through it alive.

 

* * *

 

Alex woke in a metal chair with clasps around his wrists and ankles, and the bright light of the room making a vivid crimson of his eyelids. He had not the respite of proper sleep, so he recalled what had happened faster than he would have liked. His pulse sped up too quickly for his body to catch up, which was disorienting.

Something was in his blood. Something was in his arm, connected by tubing to a set of drips at his side. Someone was behind the control panel of a monitor that wired to the chemical machine behind him, and someone else was sitting across the table. Familiar.

Ah, yes. Noel Kanisorto.

She smiled with elegance and cordiality. She gestured toward his arm and said, "So that you maintain a certain degree of clarity."

He shook his head, which was ice cold and murky. Peripherally, the woman reached for her connector. He heard the electric echo of his own voice from his last conscious moments in the office, enunciating those incriminating word in his call to the doctor.

_Haneul_ , he said.  _Stay safe_ , he said.  _I love you_ , and then the room was silent.

It must have been Sancotte. She must have recorded the second half of that call. Well, not that Alex would have been able to fight the remaining evidence. There was not going to be any opportunity for explanations.

"It's unfortunate," said Kanisorto. "You won't betray him easily, I expect."

Alex was quiet. His nails scraped the metal of his chair in intermittent shivers, and the needle in his vein felt like it was inside his throat instead—a slow, burning cold. Ah. They had already begun.

"I'll be brief, Mr. Myeong. Based on the evidence we have collected, we've determined that you possess valuable information about the Ground's insurgence. We'd like you to disclose access to your private platforms within the network and all associated data, and to share what you know about the Grounders involved. Depending on what you tell us, we may have room to negotiate, but until you speak, your rights are suspended by the Council. We have some resources that we believe will help ease your cooperation."

She stood. Alex watched her walk, heels hitting the smooth and sterile floor, toward the door. It was a familiar tactic: immediate interrogation, no soft lull before, so that he wouldn't have the time to think or resolve, so that he would hurt, and in his drugged and disjointed state, have the base instinct to say anything to end it. His bones were already cold.

"Wait—"

Kanisorto stopped with her hand on the frame. Alex breathed, teeth aching from the chill.

"What time is it?" he asked unsteadily.

The Regent smiled without any warmth. She said, "Let us know when you'd like to talk."

Then she was gone, and Alex was left in the room with a gloved man. He turned toward the mirror glass in front of him and watched the pale man in the metal chair, eyes shadowed and collar dotted with an old kiss. He looked down, then smiled.

They didn't have Haneul yet.

He shut his eyes for the stability of the blackness. Remembered the echo of  _cheonsa,_ the bird in his palm. No matter what—no matter what—he would fight until the bitter end to keep his promise.

 

* * *

 

One week bled into two, and two into three. Vaughn watched the needles and liquid from the other side of the glass, feeling as if the injections burned his own veins. That was how it went in the Sky: pain, dripped in through the bloodstream with horrific chemical precision. Day by day they monitored the reactions of his nervous system, the electric signals of his brain, and adjusted the dosages to take him to the edge of his endurance. And he screamed—he screamed until the doctors said his throat bled—but not a single word did he speak.

The Council learned then that it wasn't pain which would break him, at least not quickly enough for their needs. They were desperate, more so than they had expected to be. A week after Alex's detainment, CyberSec had reported results from their network sweep and private investigations: a deep history of research into the development of the System that extended far past the Code Blacks, traces of an extraordinary time investment in a single project. This, coupled with the interrogations of the captured Grounders from the Sector 11 clinic, had brought a terrifying revelation—that there was a code, almost complete, which could destroy the Tree.

It was ironic. In his youth, Vaughn had fancied the eventual creation of such a thing. The infallibility of the System had seemed to be his greatest obstacle when he took up the Regency, and he knew that only when it was possible to end that System would it be possible to bring about the equity he envisioned. Perhaps, when he had met Alex, heard him spoke so fiercely about change, he had hoped one day that man might achieve exactly this. But that was before he had fallen in love, before he'd realized the cost. Before he had lost all his aspirations to his weak, human heart.

Now, nothing mattered to him except the rhythmic hills of the monitor screen, assuring him that his Sasha's heart was still beating. But it was the same for the interrogators: as long as Alex lived, anything was fair game.

At the beginning of the fourth week, the tactics changed. Vaughn, whose circumstances had seemed to be forgotten among the more immediate threat of the critical code, watched wordlessly when they brought the Grounder—the woman who had talked about the code—to one side of a long chamber. He stayed in the shadows while they took Alex to the same room.

It was not immediately obvious that the two knew each other when they met, but to Vaughn, who knew Alex well enough, the signs were clear. Alex was exhausted from his sleepless weeks, barely stable enough to breathe, let alone control the details of his expression. He looked at Kanisorto, who was in the room with them. He looked at the one-way mirror glass, near Vaughn's direction, away, and then shook his head like he was trying to clear it. Twice, only twice, he glanced at the silent woman across from him.

"What is this?" said Alex. His voice was soft and dry.

Kanisorto said, "A proposal," and Alex looked at the floor.

She continued.

"The program we discussed a few weeks ago, we know you're quite reluctant to share it with us. So we'd like to provide you some additional incentive. If you would be so kind as to locate the program for us, we'll clean this woman's memories and return her to the Ground."

Alex looked up.

"I don't know her," he said, shaking his head quickly.

"Then it's a shame," said Kanisorto, and the interrogator beside her pulled out a lethal injector. "We will proceed as scheduled with her execution."

"No—I don't—"

The interrogator pulled the woman's head back by her jaw, exposing her throat for the needle. Vaughn, who had seen many executions in these past years, felt his throat dry.

"Wait,  _wait_ —I don't know—I don't—"

"Mr. Hagner, if you would."

A hand snaked along the woman's throat, searching for an artery, needle aimed. The woman shut her eyes and shook.

For a moment, Alex was silent and still. Before the needle reached, he said, "Kaluza-Klein."

The needle stopped. Alex shut his eyes.

"The domain access," he said. "I need a blank script."

Kanisorto nodded, and a guard handed Alex a blank script on a holoscreen. Vaughn watched him type with his hands still bound, wondering if it would all be so easy.

Alex gestured the script to his guard, who gave the screen to Kanisorto.

"These are access directions for your platform? And for program command?"

Alex nodded once, wordless.

She turned toward the door. At its frame, Alex said, "You'll let her go. You promised."

"We will see."

When the door shut, Alex lowered his head.

"We will let her go," said Vaughn, when Kanisorto was outside.

She said, "If the information he gave us is correct and sufficient, I don't see why not."

She went to check just this. Vaughn lingered, watching Alex through the one-sided mirror.

A few moments later, the Grounder's shoulders wracked. She had broken into soft, exhausted sobs.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why are you here?"

Alex lowered his head. Said, "Don't worry about me."

"The code? Did you really give it to them?"

He nodded.

The woman stared at him, and soon began to cry again. "No. No, you idiot. You were supposed to be better than me."

Alex didn't say anything.

But later, still, Kanisorto came back with her mouth hard and a tightness around her eyes.

"It was empty," she said simply, and Vaughn steeled his heart.

"It was empty," she said inside the interrogation room.

Alex looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and dry by then, widening. He looked at the Grounder.

"I don't know where it is," he said.

"Don't you?"

"I swear to god, I don't know—"

"I'd say you've likely left it with your lover, no? Where is he? The doctor?"

"I don't know," he said.

"Hagner."

The interrogator by that name rebrandished the injector. Alex straightened oddly in his seat, and so, too, did the Grounder.

"No. You agreed—"

"I've exhausted my patience, Mr. Myeong. Where is the code now?"

"I don't know, I swear, I don't—"

"But you know where Haneul is, or at least where he could be. Where is he?"

Vaughn watched Alex shut his mouth. He watched the tremors in his damp curls and the tremors in his fingers. A minute shake in his head, and his beautiful eyes strained with black, wide and frightened.

"I don't know," he said, but he was looking at the Grounder.

Behind, Kanisorto nodded at Hagner. Again, he pulled the woman's head by her jaw, aimed the needle toward her throat.

"I don't know," said Alex, begging now, torn. His tremors had gone through his body. The skin of his cheeks was flushed, and he was beginning to cry. "No, please, I don't know, I don't know—"

"It's okay, Alex," said the Grounder.

"No, Maria—"

Then he turned toward the mirror glass. He wasn't looking at Vaughn—he was looking frantically across the span—but he said,

"Vaughn.  _Vaughn_ —help me, please,  _please_ —"

And Vaughn took a half-step forward, unconsciously, but the needle was in the woman's throat before he could decide to speak. He listened to a strange, strangled sound from his love, as if he were the one being killed, and then he watched something terrible weight down upon his face.

Kanisorto came outside afterward with a grim look and said, "It was worth a try."

It felt, in fact, like a grave loss. Because Alex—his soft, sweet Sasha—had let a woman die rather than betray the doctor. Vaughn could not think about the implications of this fact.

But he had to: the Sky was desperate to find the code. The Council met and decided their next move.

They had reached the maximum survivable dosage in Alex's drugs. Any more, and he would die before he would talk. Sustain the current dosage, and there was no guarantee they would achieve anything before it was too late.  _Move the interrogation to the network_ , said Welks, and Vaughn wanted to be sick, but it was the only feasible option.

So they wired the matchless architect to a space inside the network, where his mind would still process his senses like reality. They decided—the only thing that Vaughn could be viciously, darkly agreeable to—that if they could not make Alex betray Haneul, they would make Alex hate him.

 

* * *

 

Alex was delirious enough that he could not tell he was in a disembodied space, in a virtual form, until he saw Haneul. They had filled him with drugs, chemical alterations hazing his thought even in the network, so that the emotions came in disparate heaves: elation, to see his face again; despair, that his endurance had been for nothing; then suffocating, miserable confusion, because the look in those eyes were dead and dark.

Those were his eyes. That was his face, perfect to the bone. But there was no roughness to his stubble. No tired, soft wildness in his hair. There were no scars upon his knuckles.

Haneul?

No. An illusion.

Alex tried to push upright. He was unbound, sitting on the floor of a damp, rotted space, but his limbs were too heavy to move. He had not lifted inches from the ground before he collapsed again, and then the shadow of that painful silhouette swallowed him.

"You shouldn't have let her die," said a rich, rough voice.

Alex lifted his gaze slowly. The science of the Sky—how terrible it was. How horrific the likeness. He swallowed, feeling his lungs swell to a burst and prickle with needles, hearing Maria's last words echo in his skull. And though he knew it was not  _him_ , in his drugged, pained state, he could not distinguish what he saw from the expression he feared to see, when Haneul learned of what he had done.

Above, lips twisted, vicious.

"You should have told them about me," said the false doctor.

Alex shook his head. He understood what they meant to do, and he was afraid. "Stop this."

Haneul knelt. Took his hand, gently, kissed the trembling knuckles. The gesture disoriented Alex, but no more than the sudden lips by his cheek, over his mouth, his throat. It was so difficult to think.

"Don't," he whispered. "Don't do this."

The warmth withdrew. The soft hold on his hand shifted. He inhaled, sharp—

And then his finger broke beneath a merciless snap, and Alex screamed.

"You should have told them," said Haneul.

Not Haneul.

Alex felt a stinging moment of clarity with the excruciating pain. He hissed through his teeth, "You know nothing about him. You can take his face, but you know nothing about him."

The man ignored his words and broke another finger.

 

* * *

 

But early into the second week of the network interrogation, the name that Alex begged to stop the torture was  _Haneul._ It meant, to some degree, that he was beginning to associate the man with the doctor's face with the doctor himself. But despite the relentless hours, the expertise of their best psychologists and interrogators, this association was not strong enough to open his mouth.

Vaughn didn't understand it. He watched Haneul break his bones and rip apart his skin, mutilate his network form in ways that would kill any physical body. He watched until he couldn't bear it, not even to stand by the man he loved, and yet Alex persisted to protect the man that cost him so much. He felt the madness growing in his head day by day, and his only stability came from the thought of the future.

If Alex talked—when he talked—none of this would be real anymore.

Early August, Vaughn went to check on the progress with Kanisorto, who had taken oversight of Alex's interrogation. The others had returned to their rhythm of work, handling other State affairs, while Kalengar drifted by from time to time. As far as vengeance was concerned, even Kalengar seemed to have been satisfied by the brutalization in the network; these days, Kalengar awaited news of Haneul, whom the other captured Grounders had confirmed was the leader of the insurgence—the root cause of his wife's death.

It was a small relief to not have Kalengar's pressure on Alex's suffering. But in the end, it made little difference: most days the torture was horrific enough that Vaughn avoided the sight of it altogether.

That evening, as Kanisorto conjured the 3D projection of the network interrogation space, Vaughn steeled himself for the screams, the mutilation, the blood. But when the hologram flickered over the marble table, he was wholly unprepared. Bloodless. Overtaken.

"What...what is he doing?"

Quiet.

Vaughn looked at Kanisorto's face, finding her lips warped in faint distaste. "What is necessary. I must say, that resilience is quite remarkable..."

Vaughn inhaled. Turned and reached for the command panel of the projector, meaning to link audio contact with the interrogator. Kanisorto caught his arm barely in time.

"What are you doing, Regent?"

"This is madness. He's gone past the line. We're pulling him out—"

The projection vanished. Kanisorto pushed the panel away. She turned to him and said, "There is no  _line_ , Regent. Rape is a classical tool of psychological torture. He's doing what's necessary to extract the information we need. It hasn't escaped me that you still have feelings for Myeong, but for your own sake, you need to rein those in."

Vaughn stumbled back. For a moment, his vision blurred red. He wanted to—kill—

"Regent. Collect yourself."

He shut his eyes.

Saw that projected image.

All the heat left his body.

"If this is the path we're taking," he said, deathly calm, "then let me do it. I know his body. I know what he's afraid of. I would be a much more effective..."

In his pause, Kanisorto sighed. "Regent, it's painfully obvious you are trying to spare him."

"I will do what it takes to get him to talk."

"That's good to hear," said Kanisorto, "because I have a different proposal in mind."

He fell quiet. She turned on the projection again. He only glimpsed it before facing away, swallowing the bile in his throat.

"It seems to me," said Kanisorto, peering at the hologram, "that fear doesn't motivate Myeong. The only time he responded to us was when we threatened his ally. We can keep on with this torture and see if he will eventually break under the pressure, but I want to try a different tactic. I want to see if we can get him to confide in someone he trusts."

A pause.

"He doesn't trust me," said Vaughn. "I don't know if he ever did."

"But," said Kanisorto, "we can attempt to engineer it. If we give him a source of security after these sessions, we can establish that psychological inclination. You understand what I'm saying?"

When he didn't respond, Kanisorto continued.

"It's not just for the purposes of the interrogation. When we rehabilitate him, I imagine it would be quite beneficial for us if he were conditioned to...love one of us."

It was monstrous.

She was manipulating him. Dangling all that he wanted, in the most horrific, heartless way.

And Vaughn, so beaten down by the days, couldn't fight it.

"I see," he said quietly.

Kanisorto smiled. After watching the rape for a little while longer, she shut the screen down and left the room.

 

* * *

 

Alex had long lost reign of his thoughts.

Most moments, he was scared and confused. He knew that it was not Haneul, and he wanted to believe that it was because he needed Haneul. He wanted to believe that it wasn't because the pain was unbearable. He was afraid of someone who looked like Haneul, but wanted constantly to think of the same face. He wanted someone who looked like Haneul to kiss him and hold him, but he wanted to die when Haneul did. Or was it wrong? The other way around?

Sometimes, he hated the man who looked like Haneul. Only sometimes, and then other times, he'd think that something was very wrong.

He counted time to keep his clarity. It wasn't much clarity, but the numbers reminded him of the fourteen seconds of his scorch code. They reminded him of the network, and like a mantra in his head, said,  _This isn't real. This is a simulation. This is a lie._

Still, when he was bound in his real body in the real world, he sometimes felt the scars on his skin. Fractures in his bones. Gore outside his skin. Hands on his body, hands in his hair, dragging, strangling, ripping, and the copper liquid down his legs. He wished, so much, that it would end, but he had promised, he had promised—

Something about a bird.

One night, Vaughn came to visit him.

Alex didn't notice until the man was knelt beside him, brushing the curls from his face and saying gentle things.

Alex said, very tiredly, "Don't touch me."

Vaughn stopped and lowered his hand.

"Sasha," he said.

Alex shook his head. "It's not my name."

"He isn't worth it. Please, my love. Stop this."

Haneul. It was always about Haneul. Everything was Haneul. The man in the dark room—

He felt revulsion and fear, and loss, anger, and desperation.

"You don't know anything about him," said Alex.

"I do," said Vaughn. "I know that if he loved you as half as much as I did, he would have turned himself in by now. But he hasn't. He doesn't care about you. He's not—"

"Stop it. Stop. Go away."

"Alex—"

"I love him," said Alex. He was beginning to sob. "I love him," like he was trying to convince himself of this. "I won't let you hurt him."

"Alex."

Vaughn looked at him, and Alex shut his eyes, shivering, waiting for the nameless pressure to stop. After a long moment, a hand grazed his cheek. He winced.

When Vaughn left, he felt alone and terrified, waiting for a worse man to come for him.

 

* * *

 

A man did come. His father, and Alex wondered if he were inside the network again.

He was undoing the metal clasps around his limbs when Alex smelled the sweat and stains of alcohol.

"Dad?"

Eugene Myeong lifted Alex's arm and set it quickly over his shoulder. He smiled, a strained look, and said, "Come on, Alex. Let's get you out of here." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: uh, so, when I wrote the original, I had everything outlined and was like, 'okay cool let's get to writing all this,' and then I hit these chapters, and I was like, 'wait what did I sign myself up for???' You'd think with a rewrite I'd be a little more prepared but I'm still like WHAT DID I SIGN MYSELF UP FOR (but wait it's not over yet) 


	30. 30

They told him his son had been arrested for treason in June, and then detained him at the upper security stations for six weeks. In August, Eugene Myeong was unexpectedly released for having no plausible involvement with Alex's traitorous affairs, though his reputation was in tatters from an unexplained, month-long absence. He returned to the free world hearing no news circulation of Alex's crimes, not even a whisper at his workplace. It seemed that the Sky had suppressed the truth, even from Eugene, who was told nothing about the details of his son's transgressions.

But he knew.

He knew his son was special from the moment their eyes first met, a babble of noise gurgling from his mouth as his little fingers flailed in the air. He knew that boy had grown a matchless mind, one which could make possible the impossible. And he knew, ten years ago, in the hospital room, that when Alex cried and pleaded for the Grounder in the cells, it was because he'd fallen in love.

So he didn't believe it at first, because it meant that his own ignorance had stripped his son of a safety net all this time, but when they started questioning him about his relation with the Ground and the aftermath of his wife's passing, he knew. Alex had done something for which he could not be pardoned. For which he would be tortured, and then executed.

On August 4th, he donned a hooded jacket and went to Will Demari's one-man home. His old friend took one look at him, and then ushered him quickly inside.

"I need your help," said Eugene, as soon as the door had closed.

Will stepped back, exhaling. "I'll pour you some tea."

"Will!"

The man had already retreated inside. Eugene followed him until they reached the kitchen, where the CyberSec director filled a pot with fresh water.

"Will," he said again, "they're going to kill my son."

"No, they're not."

"I need—"

"I've already done everything I can," said Will, turning to face Eugene. His eyes were hard—same look as from their college days, when they had fought over Clara Davis for the first time. "They wanted to rehabilitate you, you know. You wouldn't even remember Alex right now if I hadn't pulled all my cards."

Eugene fell quiet, not quite understanding what Will was talking about.

"I...thank you. But my son..."

Will shook his head, an unsteady exhale escaping his lips before he replied in a quiet voice. "He's out of my hands, Gene. He's done too much. There's nothing I can do." A pause. "If it's any consolation, they won't kill him. He's too valuable. Our best hope is that he talks soon. They might try to hand him over the the DHS, but I think Scio might—"

"Fuck that bastard."

"I know. But he wants Alex alive, and he's your best hand in the game right now."

"No. No, I'm not going to sit by while my son is being—being  _tortured._ And then let him—what? Let them enslave him like some machine? Let that fucked up bastard turn him into a—a—"

"There's nothing else we can do! Okay?"

Their voices were escalated now.

"How can you say that? He's my son! He's  _her_ son! Clara would never—"

"Clara is dead!"

Silence.

Eugene stumbled back, bracing a hand on the counter for stability. He searched for words, anything to convince his friend. "I know...I know we've drifted apart since the marriage. But I...I wanted to name him Dameon, you know. After my father."

Will looked up.

Eugene nodded. "Willian Alexander Demari."

The director turned away, facing the boiling pot.

"Please," said Eugene. "Just help me find out where he is. Help me get to him."

Nothing.

"You don't have to come. You don't even have to leave your office. I just need the security bypass. One hour, Will. Please.  _Please_."

A long pause.

And then, an untelling breath.

"The Sky won't be safe for him. You need to bring him to the Ground, where he has allies."

"I know—"

"He's being kept in the Upper Imperial. I can bypass the security and override the travel locks for you, but it's staffed tight with guards. I might be able to draw some out with a decoy alarm, but you'll need to deal with the rest."

Eugene nodded.

"It's not going to happen right away. We need to work out a route. But even then, if it's just you..." Will shook his head. "It's a big gamble, Gene."

"I know," he said. "But he's my son."

"Let's get to work, then."

 

* * *

 

It wasn't real. But it wasn't painful either, so Alex went along with it.

His father pulled him gently upright from the strapped bed and led him into the quiet hall. There two guards laid on the floor, unconscious or dead. This was confusing, so Alex looked at his father, who wore a stern and focused expression. They stumbled past the bodies, around a corner, another guard, another hall—and slowly, slowly, the sharpness of the air touched the nerves of Alex's cheeks. At a point, his father pulled him behind a wall while distant footsteps went by. Alex counted the rushed beats of his own heart, realizing that his pulse had risen.

He didn't dare hope or speak until he was ushered into a falcon, beneath the canopy of a storage deck. When the engine started, he swallowed.

"Anemone?"

There was only a second of hesitation.

"Your mother's favorite flower."

He exhaled. It  _was_ his father. It was real, probably.

But was that a relief? Vaughn had promised a line the Council never crossed—that for the innocent citizens of the Sky, no undue harm would come. Even for a criminal like Alex, the Council had not threatened his father to extract the information they wanted. His father was meant to be safe. Uninvolved. And that, through everything, had given Alex a peace of mind. But now...

The falcon sped onto the lane, a criminal getaway.

"How did you find me?"

"A friend," said Eugene.

A friend? Security down, no alarms—it could only be one. "Demari? But..."

"He's got a route to the Ground set up for us. We need to get you to a hospital. That doctor of yours, he's a real doctor?"

Alex nodded half-consciously. Demari. Willian Demari, Director of Development at CyberSec. And his father, speaking of Haneul? It was all surreal. It was impossible that the torture was over, wasn't it? Because he still felt it in his skin and bones.

"Hey. You're going to be okay now."

Alex nodded again.

He closed his eyes.

A light flashed through his lids. A swear echoed from his side. Like waking from a dream, or relapsing into a nightmare, he glanced back to see the chasers emerging from the shadow of the Imperial. A short glance: blood gone cold, his head snapped forward, and his lips shut, silent.

"It's going to be okay," his father said, and flew off the lane.

Alex believed him. He had to. The alternative was unthinkable.

They dove into the shadows of the upper Sky, descending at a reckless pace. The edges of towers and rails of lanes went by, too close for comfort. An audible breath picked up, curses dropped every now and then. In the far corner of his mind, Alex thought idly that he had never heard his father curse before. What a curious phenomenon. Was this still reality?

Yes.

Yes: a missile streaked past them, crashing against a tower wall with a pitched shatter. Not an explosive—they were trying to stop the vehicle, not kill the passengers. Not kill—

"Stop," said Alex.

"Alex?"

"Stop," he said, his voice dropping to a quiver. "Let me go."

A pause.

"Hold on," said Eugene.

Alex covered his head with his hands, shaking.  _Let me go_ , he wanted to say,  _or they will kill you_ , but the words wouldn't pass his throat. He didn't want to go back. He wanted to escape with his father. He wanted to see—

A strangled cry escaped his lips.

"Al—"

A harsh jolt lurched him forward. The impact of a missile—left side, sending the falcon spiraling. No explosion, but after some short seconds of attempting to regain control, it became clear that the vehicle was done for. His father cursed again and pulled the falcon back onto a lane, barely avoiding a crash as they skid to the edge.

"There's another," said Eugene, quickly, breathlessly. "We'll have to run. This way—"

He was panicking. If he were not, he would have seen the vehicles docking on the other side of that skylane, and the ones hovering behind them now. There were at least six. Or maybe he chose to ignore them, holding onto the illusion of escape. His father wasn't practiced in these things, after all. He was meant to live a soft life of luxury.

Alex tugged at his sleeve. "Dad."

His father stilled. Looked at him.

Alex didn't know what to say other than that helpless syllable. But something struck his father's eyes, a fierce light, and Eugene Myeong faced forward again. He placed his hand on the steering handle. The engine roared threateningly.

"I'll—"

Alex winced.

Wet liquid on his face.

He blinked, and saw his father's eyes blank. Head slumped. Blood and gore splattered across the back of his seat, a hole in his head. A hole in the shattered windshield.

What?

Alex reached for his father's face. But his hand would not steady.

"No. No."

What? Was this reality?

"Stop," he whispered. "Stop it. That's enough."

This—the blood, the smell—that light in his eyes, gone in a blink—it wasn't supposed to happen this way.

"Stop," he said, voice breaking, hands crawling over a dead warmth. "Come back. I'll tell you what you want. Anything. I'll tell you everything—"

He stopped. Inhaled. Clasped a trembling hand over his mouth.

He looked beyond the broken windshield. A circle of armed guards, approaching. A memory of what awaited. The scent of heavy blood, the silhouette tearing out his voice. I'll tell you everything?

No.

No, he couldn't.

Alex shut his eyes and thought he wanted to see Haneul one more time, and then he felt the embedded terror at the memory of that face. It was sick and unbearable, and he could not go back to that torture.

 _Promise me_ —

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

He took the steering wheel of the falcon. Forced the gears forward. With a broken push, the vehicle jolted forward, over the edge of the skylane. Alex lifted his arms over his head, feeling a dozen claws pull apart his body before his world went black.

 

* * *

 

The doctors declared that he had survived by a miracle, but miracles were not enough to undo the regret in Vaughn's heart. For a time, a short time after seeing his broken body, time rewound fourteen months, and Vaughn lost the haze of his madness. He prayed to the God he never believed in that if Alex could live, if only Alex could live, he would endure any heartache, any unforgiveness, any fate. If Alex could live, Vaughn would gladly deliver him to Haneul himself.

Alex did live.

And his first words to Vaughn when his eyes opened:  _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please kill me, if you still love me._

Ironic.

Cosmically comical, that no matter how the cards fell, he could never have what he wanted with love.

In the end, he could not do it. When Alex recovered enough, the torture resumed. Vaughn stepped into the role that Kanisorto had proposed, tending to him gently in the aftermath of the worst. And Alex began to respond, clinging desperately to Vaughn whenever the time came for him to leave. But it had become clear after the suicide attempt that Alex was losing a critical sanity, and if his mind went before his submission came, then it was game over.

So they brought him to Kindle. Not for the rehabilitation that Vaughn had intended—no, they had discovered writings among Alex's belongings as if he had been preparing for such a memory wipe, as if he had somehow predicted all of this. Fearing that he had a trick up his sleeve they had yet to uncover, the Council decided to do to him what they had never done before to a citizen of the Sky: subject him to the System.

Ah, ironic.

And cosmically comical, that after spending a lifetime chasing a world in which it might cease to happen, Vaughn would find himself in the position of his own father.

 _You gave up too soon_ , Alex had said in bed that night.

And Vaughn thought—no.  _This_ was giving up.

They spent weeks making the preparations, and Vaughn, he spent weeks rewriting the life he had with Alex. Knowing that the man would be difficult to fool, he spun two layers: one for Alex to slowly deconstruct, the false silica and potash in his medical files and the inconsistent story about an accidental explosion, a vehicular crash; and another for him to discover and fall upon as the 'hidden' truth—the horrible doctor, taking him down to the Ground, exacting upon him the torture now ingrained into his psyche. He was careful about the adjustments of physical evidence, down to the message logs in Alex's connector; he was careful in his training of Harriet Louman, who would play the role of Alex's best friend, and in his instructions for all the other peripheral actors of this new life. And he was careful with himself, immersing himself within this fabrication so deeply that it soon began to feel real. His Sasha. His lover.

And in exchange for everything he had ever wanted, he only needed to ensure that Alex used his talents for the Sky. Between the story, the psychological conditioning, and the System, it had almost sounded easy.

The day came at last for the Tag to be implanted. They kept him sober in the twenty-four hours before the operation, so that the System would have a clean reading of his brain's wiring and make the correct adjustments. When they walked into the holding room, it seemed that Alex understood what was going to happen. His tired eyes flickered up to Vaughn, and despite the conditioning of these past weeks, they held only cold accusation.

It was Kanisorto who walked behind his chair, placing a hand upon the cool metal back. "You play a hard game, Mr. Myeong. So today, we are going to concede this round."

Alex closed his eyes and leaned back his head. Was it relenting? Or relief?

"I'll make you concede the next one too," he said, voiceless.

Kanisorto chuckled, and Vaughn repressed the shiver down his spine.

"Oh, I doubt that, Mr. Myeong."

Alex said nothing. They wheeled him to the operation room of a Dr. Richard Mehari, and injected him with sedative. In the moments before he drifted off to unconsciousness, in the short moments when the others left the room, Vaughn approached his side. Tried to say his name, one last time, before it was over. Tried to voice a promise.

But it was Alex who spoke first.

"You must still love me after all to be killing me like this." He turned to see Vaughn, and despite the softness of his voice, it was only bitterness in his eyes. "But Regent, this isn't what I meant."

"I..."

"Every time you make love to me after this moment," he said, "will be rape."

Vaughn lost his words, and stood, a glass man brittle. Alex closed his eyes.

"Remember that," murmured the hammer, the final drifts of his voice, "when I don't remember anything." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Next chapter, we'll be back at present time. If anyone needs a refresh, this would be the spot to make a skim from chapters 1 - 12! 


	31. 31

A shaking at his shoulder woke him. A foreign voice, nervous.

He opened his eyes to the edge of a polished oakwood table and the shadow of a woman at his side, the ceiling light a piercing ache, a terrible memory. Mid-Sky, little cafe. Evening time, September 25th, 2586.

It was suffocating to be awake.

"...on the table. Are you feeling alright?"

Alex looked at the woman's face and registered nothing. He looked past her, toward the corner television screen displaying idle news. Numbers in the corner. "It's 6:52," he said, as if the time would ground him again.

It almost did. He remembered he was short on it and stumbled upright. His leg bones felt hollow, eardrums deflecting the cafe lady's concerned words as he knelt by the table. He could not dissect his new memories without being swallowed by them, so he shoved them aside as he searched for the dropped burner. There, in the back corner—his fingers lost their grip twice before retrieving the device. Its line was dead.

"Sir," said the woman, "if you need me to call the hospital..."

"No," he said, voice hoarse.

"Then—"

He stumbled past her and went for the door. Out the cafe, into the streets. As soon as the air hit, acidic vomit heaved up his gut, and he clamped a hand over his mouth and grabbed for the wall. He shut his stinging eyes. Swallowed, gave the nausea two seconds to fade, and then kept walking. Slowly, the rhythm of his footsteps pulled out his old logic. It was surrounded by a clutter in his head, but out of desperation or survival instinct, he made enough sense of it.

He knew where he needed to go now. He had no other choice. On June 16th, 2586, the sting operation must have hit the Sector 11 clinic. Maria was gone. No doubt others had been captured, likely killed by now. And Livia...

They had Tagged her.

Muted her.

Paraded her before an unknowing Alex, called her a housekeeper named Anna. Brandished her as a hostage, precisely for a situation like this. He'd miscalculated. God, he was so close—so fucking close, a walk away from where MM waited in lower East Central. Minutes away from freedom, from Haneul. Haneul.

But he couldn't let them kill her.

Fingers shaking, he flicked open the screen of his new connector. He found a shadowed street corner and opened the dial log. What were the first three digits again? 378, or 738? 387? Or 9? He couldn't remember it. Never thought he would need it. Switching to the network search screen instead, he looked up the number online before plugging it in hastily. Time was ticking. Haneul and the others—they couldn't be sitting patiently right now. And Vaughn—that madman, god knew what he was thinking.

" _Hello_?"

Alex shut his eyes. There was nothing else he could do, but this. Nothing but bend, to save Livia, and hope that this one message would reach Haneul before it was too late.

"Sir, it's me. I need your help."   
  


* * *

 

7:42, Alex arrived back upon the 999th floor of Arleon Tower.

Vaughn's falcon was parked patiently in its usual place, the hood of the engine cool upon Alex's passing touch. The lights of the apartment were on. The front door, when Alex turned the handle, was unlocked. He had a disjointed memory of spring 2585, coming here that first time after Regina Kalengar's death. But this time, when he stepped through the frame of the entrance, the door locked with a foreboding click.

Inside, it was silent.

Alex paused in the entry corridor, calming his breath. He removed his connector band and tucked it in his outer pocket. He removed his jacket and hung it in the side closet. He removed his shoes, because there was nowhere to run. Then he walked into the living room he'd known as home for a near year. Past the aquarium of fish. Around the kitchen, the empty dining room. Into the bedroom.

A disturbing silhouette greeted him.

The curtains were shut. The light was off. When Alex pressed the switch, those ceiling lights illuminated Vaughn Scio, dressed in an unbuttoned mulberry shirt, sitting at the base of the bed, a mess pooled around his legs. Scattered, dried roses. Shattered glass of a photo frame, carefully collected in a crimson-speckled pile. And—ripped shreds of straw.

He was undoing the little bird. Prying it apart methodically, and tearing off the pieces.

Alex took a step back.

"Welcome back," murmured Vaughn. "Dinner's on the table, if you're hungry."

Alex didn't move. He had never been as afraid of this man as he was in this moment, watching him destroy that beautiful thing with sadistic lethargy.

"No?" said Vaughn, glancing up briefly. "Then come join me. And lock the door behind you, love."

Alex swallowed.

"Where is she? Livia? Anna?"

"Secure, I promise. Don't worry. You'll see her again as soon as you forget her. But I was thinking, before that, we could have a little heart to heart. For old times' sake."

A pause.

"This isn't beyond fixing, Vaughn."

The Regent chuckled. Shook his head, and plucked off the bird's head. Alex winced.

"You know, Alex, I never thought we'd find ourselves in this situation. How do you game the upper Sky, the System,  _and_ total amnesia? I don't understand. But, at the end of the day, all it took to have you crawling back like a tamed pet was one of them at gunpoint. Sweet Sasha." Vaughn looked up then, lips still curved from his chuckle, but eyes dark. "Come inside and lock the door."

Fear froze him in place for a moment longer. He forced himself to turn around. Close the door. Latch the lock.

All of a sudden, a shadow slipped over the wall. Alex tensed and flipped back, finding that Vaughn was looming closer, and coming closer yet. He stumbled back until his back hit solid, his pulse thundering, his breath hitching. He shut his eyes as a hand reached for his throat. It rested there, a pressureless, enclosing grasp.

After a moment, Alex opened his eyes. He found Vaughn gazing down at him, appearing—sad.

"This isn't beyond fixing?" murmured the Regent. His thumb stroked down Alex's throat. "Look how terrified you are of me."

Guilt.

It pricked at Alex for a short moment, the thought that something he'd said, some callous mistake he had made, had hurt Vaughn. And then he realized just how utterly warped it all was.

"How could I not be?" said Alex.

Vaughn removed his hand, staring.

"You took my life from me."

It was like pulling the essential string of a knot. Everything unbearable about his memories had been practically suppressed until now, but those words were such a truth that it all unraveled. Alex could not process what he was feeling, except that it was burning and cold, lashing all his softer thoughts to shreds.

"I could have forgiven you for the torture. You heard me beg you to stop them and you did nothing. I could have forgiven you for that. But you—"

Alex couldn't find the words. He just thought of Haneul, the sickness that still lingered, the terror and revulsion, and the grief that he'd lost something so integral to his heart. He thought about Maria, the inhumanity of her last moments. He thought about his father and Livia, one dead with his final act of love erased, the other dangled like a weapon. He thought of the lapses of his memory, the lies and forced loving that came after—he thought of the ferocity of what he had felt, in love and in pain, then both warped, and waking up as Sasha, emptied of everything.

"You raped me," he said. "I told you it would be rape and you did it anyway. You took away everything important to me. You made me a shell of myself, and you—" His words caught, a sudden, awful realization. "You were happy about it."

"You gave me no choice," said Vaughn. "It was the only way I could protect you."

"Protect me?" whispered Alex. " _Protect_ me?"

Quiet.

Vaughn stepped away.

The words between them fell into silence, a million things unsaid, but what did it matter? Vaughn was right: there was no fixing this. Nothing could repair the damage that had been done to them both.

The Regent walked to the nightstand. There laid a glass of water, a set of pills, some rope, a black cloth, and a small metal box. He picked up the water and picked out some pills. Said, "Drink."

Alex didn't move.

"Please don't make me force you, Alex."

He delayed a while longer. But Vaughn began to shift, and afraid, Alex moved forward. He went to the bedside and took the glass, the two pills in a tissue. One pale blue, one pastel white.

"What are these?" he said, voice hoarse.

"A relaxant and an analgesic."

Alex looked up. Shook his head. "No. I refuse."

"I'm not asking," said Vaughn.

Alex stared at the man, not comprehending that face.

At last, numb, he said, "I don't know who you are anymore."

The Regent's gaze dropped from his eyes, an indistinct focus. He said nothing.

Alex took the pills. Chased them down with bitter water. The glass returned to the stand half-empty, drawing attention to the rope, the cloth, and the small metal box. The box was latched at two locks, unlabelled, stirring more unease in Alex's gut than even the pills he had just swallowed.

"Hold out your hands," said Vaughn.

He did so. Vaughn reached for the rope, using it to bind Alex's wrists.

"What are you planning to do?" said Alex.

Vaughn tugged at the rope, testing the hold. Alex winced at the burn, then gasped as Vaughn pulled him around. He fell onto the bed, bound hands barely cushioning the fall. A moment later, before he had the chance to lift his body, black covered his vision. The cloth. As rough fingers tied the knot at the back of his head, a dredged horror resurfaced. The depths of a virtual room consumed him, and he thought he could hear the breathing of a false doctor.

"No," he gasp, a strangled sound. "No, don't, don't do this. I can't..."

Something clicked. Locks undone. A shuffle.

Then in blackness, a hand wrapped around his throat. A voice murmured in his ear.

"We're going to play one last game together, my love."

"I don't want—"

The press of a mouth through the fabric of his shoulderblade, a chilling kiss.

"Please—stop—"

Fingers, curling into the rim of his shirt collar.

"Oh, Sasha, you should have run."

"I—"

The fabric tore. A memory flashed. Alex jerked forward, trying to tear the cloth off his eyes, trying to find his way back to reality—but the tendrils of his nightmare held him down, ripped apart his clothes. He screamed, forgetting that it was Vaughn, because no voice responded to his cries. It was just hands. Just darkness, and cold, harsh, punishing hands.

_Thirty-two._

_Thirty-three._

_Thirty-four_ —

His voice tore as something thrust into him. It was not long before he was shivering uncontrollably, incoherent, begging between the screams, "No more, no more— _please,_ please, no more—"

" _Alex?_ "

A cry lodged in his throat. But the numbers—they clicked. Stopped.

"Ha..neul?"

A breath, electric and distorted, awful. But the sound faded quickly from his left ear, and the hold on him relented. Alex scrambled to pull the cloth from his eyes, to reorient his scattered mind.

"Did you hear that, doctor?"

Alex flipped around. Saw, with cold horror, Vaughn holding a small black device to his ear, where the indistinguishable echoes of a screaming man drifted uselessly to Alex. He didn't understand how—but then he remembered the last moments of June 16th, the comm in his hand with one final call remaining. They must have stored it in evidence. Vaughn must have taken it out.

"No," said Alex, voiceless. "Haneul, no—"

Vaughn shoved him down by the throat. Said into the device, "Why so upset, doctor? This is what you left him to for three months, when you were too much of a coward to save him."

A pause. A laugh.

"Kill me? No, no.  _You_ are going to turn yourself in to the Council for questioning—"

"No, stop it, don't—"

"—by midnight, tonight. And until you do, no matter how prettily he begs me to stop, I won't. Don't even try to come near us. I'll cut off one of his limbs for every security line you breach."

Fury consumed him. " _Vaughn Sci_ —ah!"

"I suggest you hurry, doctor. He's making a very bloody mess on my bed."

"No! Haneul!"

Vaughn tossed the comm. In fact, there was no blood, and the sudden look on the Regent's face suggested there would be none coming. But Alex's bound hands clawed at him regardless, furious, wanting to tear through his skin.

"You bastard—you  _fucking_ bastard—"

Arms encircled him. He went on scratching, cursing, but no words returned. And soon the medicated exhaustion of the pills loosened his strength, and a soft kiss pressed to his stained cheek.

"It'll all be over soon, my love. Now lay down, and let me make it up to you."  
  


* * *

 

He began lovingly, like their relationship. A soft, giving companionship, wishing to lift the curves of Alex's lips. It was the man Vaughn was meant to be. The selfless lover, never failing to cook a generous breakfast, to make beautiful promises with beautiful roses, to endure the trials of each work day without wavering in his soft smiles at home. The intensity of his love was hard to rival, and when it corroded, it became something equally horrific. Alex had unknowingly chipped away at the pillars of that love, and though it was not all his fault, though Vaughn's descent was the man's own choice, he couldn't help but believe that ultimately, he had created this madness.

He had a lot of time to think as he laid there in the bed, trying to focus on anything but the memory of the false doctor's torturing. In fact, he had more time to think clearly—with all his true memories intact—than he had since they began dosing him on drugs and pain. He remembered something. That in the end, Vaughn wasn't the one who had sold him to the Council. In the end, Vaughn had probably sat before them as well, defending himself against the inevitable accusations of treason. The torture, Maria's death, Haneul's image, Livia's capture, his rewritten life—at the end of the day, maybe that hadn't been Vaughn's choice at all.

And maybe the happiness Vaughn found in their false life together, maybe that was just survival.

Maybe he'd bought too much into the high of it.

Maybe he'd discovered the truth was too brutal beside the softness of an illusion, for both of them.

And maybe, maybe that was why he was doing this right now, proving that reality was broken, unfixable, no matter how deeply he loved or how gently he touched.

Ah, yes. He began lovingly, but it descended into something desperate and twisted. Madness—he couldn't seem to keep his sanity when he hurt Alex, just like he hadn't been able to in the past.

"Don't worry, my love," he murmured for the hundredth time. "It will all be over before midnight."

Alex turned away, so exhausted, utterly worn. And a hand brushed his cheek, thumbing the dry tracks.

"You'll tell us everything we want, won't you? To keep your doctor from screaming."

He'd tell them everything now, if only it would make a difference.

"It will be quick. Afterward, you'll forget. And then we'll be irrelevant to the Sky, and leave this place, and live our peaceful lives to the end. Together."

Alex shook his head. A kiss touched his cheek.

"Don't worry, my love," came that same murmur. "I'll protect you. I'll make you smile again. I'll do anything."

"Vaughn," he whispered, wishing to reach his old friend in this dark place, "Vaughn."

But the man above him only groaned, and deepened his thrusting. "There you go, sounding so sweet. Beg me for it, Sasha."

He shut his eyes in grief, and said, "That's not my name."

The Regent touched his aching lips.

"It will be."  
  


* * *

 

He'd downed a glass of liquor before those hours, so that he could go through with the first act. But as the high faded, all he had left to cling to was his own lust, and the precious body he held.

To break free of the System was the greatest transgression of the Sky. Not because it was such an awful crime, but because it was an impossible one. Because they had no means to contain someone with such a capability, and the only answer—the answer Vaughn knew the Council would give—was execution. It didn't matter how valuable the asset. A threat of Alex's caliber would be put down.

Ending the resistance tonight was the only way Vaughn might save him and keep him. But Alex hated him for it, truly hated him as he had never been hated, and it destroyed him inside. So Vaughn tried to love him, desperately, in the short hours they had left.

Night came. They tired. He tried to hush his lover to sleep, but despite the heavy relaxants, Alex would not stop shivering. So he dressed and fixed a meal and tried to feed him, but Alex would not eat or drink. In the end he simply sat on the bed, tracing the memorized curves of Alex's body while he awaited the call from the Imperial.

He was confident Haneul would go. That underhanded play in the evening had been a desperate move, after seeing Alex draw the doctor all the way to the upper Sky. Before that moment, Vaughn had truly doubted whether the doctor held any love for Alex, had despised the man for throwing away something Vaughn would give the world for. Even as he had placed the call tonight, he was still betting on a gamble.

When he heard the terrible curses in his black communicator, though, he knew he had won. Those were the screams of a man in love, and Vaughn would recognize them anywhere. In a small way, he hated the man less. In a faint, barely conscious corner of his mind, he almost regretted his own choice. Almost.

He awaited the call from the Imperial, but it never came.

No.

What sounded in its place was a crash and a shatter.

Vaughn rose from the bed, his touch slowly leaving the rising body at his side. Another sound echoed, unmistakable, and Vaughn looked down. He shared a moment with those beautiful eyes, all that he had ever wanted, all that he still loved, and watched them glimmer with hope. It was impossible. It was impossible that this was happening, and yet—

And yet when he rushed into the corridor of his apartment, he was met with the scent of copper and rust, with the forgotten taste of the Ground. A clamour with no high sky elegance, a silhouette raised by shadows.

Him.

Him—under the archway of the hall, nothing like the image they copied, wearing a fire from hell in his eyes—unmistakably the man that Alex loved.

"Haneul," said Vaughn.

"You motherfucking bastard." Haneul lifted his gun, barrel pointed and metal cocked. "You are going to wish you were never born."


	32. 32

If ever Haneul believed in fate, some great hands playing him like a puppet, then the cut in the comm line was like a cut through his strings.

Everything became staccato and smeared after Alex ended the call with those three words, from the sound of his own name to the roar of their halted vehicle engines. He managed instructions in a practiced calm; he told them to call Maria and Stefan and Victor and find Peter Kozlov; he sent for Bennie and asked MM to follow; he had a direction still when he spurred his bike forward along the Ground tunnel. He knew what he needed to do next, but gone was the passioned and methodical strategy that had gotten the resistance this far.

Like a switch had been flipped, he stopped thinking about them. When he rolled his palms against his vehicle handles, the moist heat sickening his head, he stopped thinking at all.

His father had said that mindlessness was a common product of fear. Haneul, he was afraid of many things. He never went a day in his life without being afraid—of losing a patient, of losing a friend, of making the wrong call and smothering this rare hope. He had never lost his mind about it, but then again, he had never been afraid like this.

This was like the Tag upon his neck, a hundred times heavier than it had been.

Gale cut in front of his path. He veered around, but the others blocked his way.

"You can't go up there," said Gale. "It's suicide."

"Get out of my way," he said.

"Haneul, we can't pull off a trip that far up. You  _know_ that."

He wound the power to his engine and rode toward the weakest gap in the block. The riders pulled back quickly to avoid the crash.

"Doc—"

"Haneul! Don't let him—"

Someone collided into him. The pain burst through his right side with a screech and a metal clamor, and then he was thrown off, rolling along the tunnel cement. It hurt to move, but he moved enough to see his damaged bike and blood along his arm. That thing over his heart dripped into his lungs, bursting.

He roared and said, "They're going to kill him. Don't you get it? They're going to fucking kill him!"

"They're not—"

"After everything he's done for us, we're going to leave him to die?"

"Doc, they're not going to kill him. Just—"

"They'll torture him. They'll make it worse than death." He stood up, shook his head, shook out the fury, kept just the desperation. Just Alex. "I'm not going to let that happen. I'd die first."

"No, god damn it! You need to think this through.  _Piensa_ —"

"Get out of my way."

"Just—"

"Get the fuck out of my way."

"You need to calm down. You're not—"

He threw his knuckles into MM's cheek. Someone grabbed his arm, and he lashed reflexively. Someone else grazed his sleeves—then it became an ugly brawl, uncontainable. They said things he couldn't hear or process, and he shouted at them like a madman, shattering the illusion of their blessed doctor. He had never felt so bare and careless of it before. It was a while before they dragged him off, bloodied and unconscious.

 

* * *

 

They told him about Maria and the others at the clinic when he woke up, that they had been taken by the Sky, and then they told him that Peter Kozlov had been secured underground. Then he asked for his keys to the parking complex, and they locked him in a shelter room.

Cornered, Haneul realized the reality of things.

Alex was gone. The tone of that call, the cracked whispers of his final words—it was unmistakable. He had been discovered. With the hours that had passed, they would have confined him to the Upper Imperial, the most tightly guarded area of the whole State, where not even Bennie could access. A quiet break-in was simply impossible. At best they could force their way inside, lose dozens of lives, and then maybe—maybe—glimpse Alex's face before they executed him to keep him from escaping.

Maria was also gone. Carl, Livia, his doctors and nurses. People he had known for years. Decades. His best friend. They would be interrogated and killed. But wasn't that the kinder mercy?

Alex—Bennie was right; they'd never kill Alex so quickly, and he'd suffer and suffer a hell that Haneul would never know. Their only chance to save Alex had been in the short hours immediately after his call—and Haneul wanted to hate them for shutting away that chance, but he knew that the upper Sky could not be touched without days of advanced preparation, and he knew that they never had a chance at all.

Still, he planned. He planned though all the routes ended in death, for him, for Maria, for Alex, and then he began to wonder if it were not his best option—to at least spare them all the suffering. And the thought of Maria's death cut him to the bone, but it was the thought of a world without Alex—even a world that Haneul could not be a part of—that ruined him.

It was Gale who eventually unlocked his door and begged him to be better than this.

"They're barely holding it together outside," he said. "We need you, Haneul."

For a moment, he remembered the whispers of a lionized doctor, a man made into an ideal, someone took upon his shoulders the burden of changing this world, someone stronger and surer than he had ever thought he could be—than ever he should have been—and then the mad little hope he had inside of him collapsed.

Alex was gone.

His shoulders folded in until Gale's hand slipped to his back. He covered his face with his hands and said, "I knew this would happen."

"No one knew—"

"I  _knew_. What else could happen? I never should have agreed to this. All of this."

Gale said softly, "I know it hurts. But you, of all people, need to move forward. You are Haneul—you are the pillar of this resistance. If you fall apart now, what will become of us?"

He laughed once, cold and ugly.

"He was your pillar. I'm just a story they tell."

"Haneul—"

"I did this to them. To him." He looked at Gale, the hurt and heartbreak in his eyes, maybe the disappointment, and he saw that Gale didn't understand. Haneul turned away. "Get out, please."

Gale left.

He didn't understand, but how would he? Gale had not spoken that foolish promise to Alex to  _make this count_ , the damning words that would commit him to an impossible cause. Gale hadn't seen him bloodless and barely make it through a night in the hospital, only to release him back into the same danger for two more years. Gale had not understood in the pit of his heart that every time Alex left for the Sky could be the last time, and still, watched him go, again, and again, and again. Gale hadn't seen the stars in his eyes at the edge of the world, or heard him say,  _I love you_ , knowing as the line cut that his own frightened  _saranghae_ might never translate.

Alex, with the faith of a child and a timeless brilliance, with the refraction of the whole sky in his eyes, had made of Haneul a man who thought himself strong enough to endure all this, but too late, Haneul learned that he was not so strong. He was not the beacon of some hundred thousand dreamers. He was a man without the courage to reckon with what could—did—happen. And now it ate him alive, that Maria was lost because of it, that he hadn't fallen to his knees and begged for Alex to stay.

Time passed. Hours or days, he couldn't tell. Occasionally, people came to plead with him. But the delusion that he could be their saving grace had given his two dearest people to hell, and he couldn't go back to it. Eventually, his time alone became longer. Eventually, he began to wonder what turning himself in might buy for Alex.

One day, Gale came knocking at his door. A hungover mess, Haneul had not the decency to respect his old lover's time. He stumbled upright, slow. Unlatched the interior locks as if time was not a concept. When the metal slid aside, he found himself staring at a strange expression, one which held too much cutting vibrance.

Gale gave his appearance a sweep, then pursed his lips. In silence, he shoved a laptop computer forward.

"What's this?" said Haneul, exhausted.

"Take it," said Gale.

Haneul gave the slate a stare. The lid was lowered, but still opened. Some electric light from the monitor spilling out from the deliberate crack. Slowly, he took the machine.

"I'll let him talk the sense into his man this time," said Gale.

Haneul blinked. Looked up. Gale met his eyes for one telling moment, and as Haneul stumbled back, his old lover left. The door slid shut, leaving him alone with the laptop.

He set the machine atop his desk. He sat in the chair. He lifted the monitor screen, and found the black cut of a video file. He pressed play.

A network space appeared. A beautiful, unmistakable face.

Alex peered at something in the corner of the screen, a soft draw in his brow. Murmured, " _Ah, is this working?_ "

"Alex?" whispered Haneul.

" _Oh,_ " said Alex, then smiled at Haneul. " _It is. Sorry, first time trying this. It's a little complicated with all the encryptions..."_

"Where are..."

" _Anyway, how are you, Haneul?_ "

"I—"

" _I hope you're well,_ " said Alex, and Haneul's heart crumbled. " _I...um, I have a lot to say to you. Well, I prepared a script here, but it doesn't feel..."_ Alex paused, and looked down, no doubt at his hands, which could not be seen on the screen. Haneul reached forward and brushed the outline of his face. The only reaction was a soft shaking of his head, a private mutter, " _God, I swore I wasn't going to do a retake._ "

"It's okay," murmured Haneul. "It's okay. Just look at me, please..."

Alex cleared his throat. Looked up.

" _So it's March 4th, 2586. It's been a few months since we last saw each other. I...miss you, Haneul. I always do, but I can never seem to tell you in person._ " A curve in the corner of his soft lips. " _Well, the beauty of video technology, no?_ " The smile slowly faded. " _I'm filming this because I'm in a bit of a delicate situation up here. If you're watching this right now, things have probably turned out for the worse. I'm scripting this to be forwarded to you in the event that State records file my neurochemical data with interrogation, which would mean that I've been detained for questioning._ "

Alex paused, as if to give Haneul time to process. He started again, carefully.

" _I know I asked you to trust me. I know...whether you knew this already, or if you're just finding out now, you...you're probably feeling a little betrayed. I'm sorry._ "

Haneul shook his head.

" _There are some things that have fallen out of my control. But I'm doing everything I can to keep my promise to you, and to see this through. And this video is one of them. So please, Haneul, whatever you're feeling, put it aside and listen to me._ "

He closed his eyes, an awful wringing in his chest, and whispered, "Oh, god, Alex..."

" _I'll start off by saying that if my neurochemical data's been uploaded, then the interrogation is for extraction. In other words, they know I'm guilty. It's most likely I'll be held in the Upper Imperial, which is the most well-secured area of the State. But because they know I haven't been working alone, they'll probably be adding physical security measures. I mean stationed guards and routine patrols. They'll be expecting you to come for me. And you can't, Haneul. You can't."_

The electric Alex gazed at him, eyes intent and sure.

" _I know everything rests on whether I talk or not. I've...I've been a bit careless in the past. I didn't think it would get to this point, and there's actually...there's a lot I would jeopardize if I were to talk, between what I've seen and what I've inferred. So on that end, I promise I'll keep quiet._ " He gave a small smile. " _It's okay. You might be horrified or assured to hear this, but I've been giving myself small practice sessions with their chemicals of choice. Network simulations, of course. Ah, please don't be mad at me_ — _it's really not so bad at a reasonable pace..._ "

A brief pause.

" _There is one thing though. I need you to access Marion and move her out of my domain. Most of my tools have been set for automatic deletion in this event, but she'll need a new home. She gets lonely. Have Bennie spend a few minutes talking with her each day._ "

Despite the heaviness of the recording, Haneul smiled here. He couldn't help it—that softness in Alex's voice when he talked about Marion was reminiscent of a parent's concern for a child.

" _And while we're on the topic of Marion..._ "

Alex paused again, the warmth in his voice fading back to business.

" _...I'll need you to keep her safe for another important reason. Aside from the fact that she's the key to this whole affair._ " He flashed a quick smile. " _However the interrogation turns out, I'm fairly sure they won't kill me. The Sky does have another trick up its sleeve that I think they'd like to play before the execution card. Based on what I've learned from Vaughn, there's a facility here that does memory alteration on Sky criminals, so it's possible that's what they will do for me. But the restoration triggers for the human-operated memory alterations are a little unreliable...strange as it might sound, it'll be better for me if the Council decides to Tag me instead. So I'm planting some documents, and I'm hoping those will unsettle the Council enough that they resort to the System. Now here is where it gets a little more speculative."_

"Christ," murmured Haneul.

" _Once I'm Tagged, I'll be led to believe I'm living life as a normal citizen. Otherwise, the memory script will trigger too often for the Council to get what they want out of me. Chances are, the Council will try to extract some System-related programming from me. That's what I would do. So I've attached an access route for Marion linked to my neural signature. And as soon as I have access to the System domain, she'll be able to come in and freeze the memory activity on my Tag. But she can't cut my Tag. This is where I'll need your help._

" _Someone will probably be keeping an eye on my Tag's tracking signal. If we're lucky, it's Vaughn Scio, and if we're lucky, I'll be living with him. When my Tag is cut, I need to be ready to make a clean getaway. That means I'll need some time to work out at least part of the truth after the wipes stop happening, and I'll need to make those preparations before my Tag is cut. I'll need you to establish contact with me. And I'll need Bennie to cut my Tag. It's a lot to ask, I know. But..."_ His gaze drifted again. " _I think, Haneul, this is the only way I can convince you to accept what could happen, right? What is happening now_."

"Alex..."

" _I promised you I would bring your little bird back. I'll do whatever it takes to keep that promise. So, Haneul, I need you to have faith in me. I need you to stay safe, and be patient, whether it takes days, or weeks, or months. Because I will need your help one day._ "

A pause. Alex's eyes softened. Carefully, his hand reached toward the screen—his fingers, brushing the edge.

" _It's going to be okay. I love you._ "

There was one more moment, and then the video ended.

Haneul closed his eyes and pressed his hand over his face, feeling the strange wetness of tears. It was hard to breathe. Hard to keep his chest still. And it took him hours, hours of replaying this video, but he realized at last—Alex never expected him to be anything more than human. He simply expected a man, a man who followed his heart and did the good that he could when he could, who cared and loved and hoped. And Haneul—he could still be that man.

He washed off the alcohol of the past blurred days. He found Bennie first, mapping out the structures of new security systems in a private workspace, skin dampened with exhaustion. She looked surprised to see him, but at the gloves over his hands and rain jacket over his shoulders, she smiled broadly.

"Good to see you again, Doc."

He gestured at the sprawl over her desk. "Is it urgent?"

"It can wait."

"Good. We've got a damn big mess to clean."

 

* * *

 

Despite the hit on the Sector 11 clinic and the hiking risk of discovery, Haneul and the others established yet a third base for serving the injured public. With the violent sweeps of the Sky, it felt simply unjustified to crawl into a hole and hide until Alex was back. They took the precaution of making the third clinic less public now than it had been, most visitors related in a way or another to the resistance itself, but no one in need was turned away. The good work went on. For the people who had their hopes staked in the resistance, it was a sign that they would not be cowed—a statement that this fight was not rooted in hatred or vengeance, but in compassion and hope.

Meanwhile, Marion was moved into a new home, as Alex had requested. Haneul would visit sometimes, and over the days she began to mimic his tics and motions. She kept him grounded as the days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months. It was on an afternoon in September that Haneul arrived in her network space and found her, not in her dormant cylinder, but in Alex's form.

He froze, whispering that name. But she didn't respond.

" _Aleumdaun,_ Marion," he said, and that familiar face lifted. "What is happening?"

Marion opened her mouth. No sound—no vocal function. No motion of her lips either. But after a moment, a holoscript appeared in front of Haneul.

_He is here._

His heart skipped a beat. "Where?"

_Inside the NETWORK. Domain Code MS9384-1919. The Upper State Monitor Archives._

"Is he alone? Can you open a path to that domain?"

A pause.

_He is alone. No._

Haneul swallowed the disappointment. But no—he wouldn't want to interfere just yet anyway. Alex had asked him to be patient.

"Is he...well?"

Another pause.

_No._

"No?"

_Neural imaging detects enhanced gamma wave activity. Projected patterns forecast Nnamani Regulatory System intervention, which is harmful to brain-state integrity. Therefore, he is not well._

Haneul looked away. Despite Marion's negative response, his pulse raced in anticipation. It meant that everything had gone as Alex had predicted. It meant he was fighting for the truth up there. And it meant that soon—soon—they would see each other again.

He left the network. He waited. Some days later, Bennie rushed to his operation room and declared that Marion had made her move. It was time.

 

* * *

 

But in the shadows of the lower East Central garden deck on September 25th, Haneul could only think of the thousand things that could have gone wrong. He'd murmured two words, and in the aftermath, the comm line had died with a clatter. Without any way of knowing what had happened, of tracking Alex down, he could only wait at their meeting spot and hope for the best.

The minutes went. No one showed. But maybe, maybe, it was only a matter of distance.

7:00 hit, and still, nothing.

"We have to look for him," he said to his two company.

"We have no way of finding him," said Gale.

"We still need to try," said Haneul, calmly. "This is it. If they take him back after his Tag is cut, he's gone. We don't have a back-up plan. This is our last chance."

"I hate to say it," said MM, "but Doc's right. We've got three options. We wait and hope for the best. We go back and prep him a funeral. Or we split. One of us will stay here. The other two can hit the likeliest locations." He shook his head. "Don't think we're all gonna make it back alive if we do that, but..."

Gale ran a hand through his hair "If anyone stays, it should be Haneul. Your face is registered with the sensors up here—"

"You know that isn't happening."

"Don't be—"

A vibration at Haneul's side quieted them. He dug out his phone and saw B03 on the screen. Bennie.

"Yeah?"

A rush of voice— " _Haneul, it's bad. I've just got word that Alex is heading back up to Scio._ "

"What?"

" _Wait_ — _listen. Livia is still alive. They're holding her hostage, and that's why he's going back._ "

"Fuck.  _Fuck_. No. They'll just kill them both—"

"What's going on?" said MM.

Gale grabbed the phone and put it on speaker.

"... _both of them. He's sending you a contact_ —"

"Wait, wait," said Gale. "We missed that. What's going on?"

"Alex is going back to Scio because they have Livia hostage," said Haneul.

" _That's the_ —"

"Livia is still alive?" said Gale.

"That narrows it down at least," said MM. "We hit the Regent's place, get Alex out—"

"But Livia—"

" _Will you boys shut up and listen to me!_ "

They fell quiet. On the other line, Bennie huffed a breath.

" _I haven't gotten to the most important part, which is_ how  _I found about this mess. I got fucking hacked. By the fucking Director of CyberSec Development._ "

"What?"

" _Yeah, that's right. Alex called him up and gave him my domain address. Told him to pass the message to me to pass to you. He_ — _Alex_ — _wants us to get Livia out, and I don't fucking know how he did it, but Mr. Director's agreed to help._ "

"How do we know it's not a trap?" said Gale.

" _Because he asked for the old moon, crumbled into stars._ "

It was the passphrase at Solzhenitsyn. The one that Haneul had given to Alex, years ago.

" _Alex trusts him_.  _We don't have another choice but to do the same._ "

"How do we get in contact with the director?" said Haneul.

" _He said he'll be in the S3D2 lowers, some karaoke bar called Mainland Bloom. I'll forward you the address. And something else_ — _Mr. Director says to be careful on your way down. Caution over speed. He says the Kindle Facilities are out for the night, so Alex will be safe with Scio for the next few hours. Guy's not gonna turn him over to the Council. He seems sure about that._ "

Haneul shook his head, doubting that 'safe' was what Bennie really meant. Alive, maybe.

" _Anyway, check your messages in about five minutes. I'll set up a route for you. Stay calm, okay? We're close, Haneul._ "

"Yeah."

The call ended.

A half-hour later, they were in the Sector 3 lowers, only a few dozen meters from midground. The karaoke bar they were set to meet at was a cheap establishment, staffed by Grounders. After handing over the pseudonym  _James Richard_ , the three were led to a private room, where music was already blasting. A man waited inside, dressed casually, but having the chiseled perfection of the upper Sky. He lifted a pair of sharp, calculating eyes to sweep over Haneul and the others, who were wordless until the staff escort had left.

"Mr. Richard?" said Haneul, below the cover of the music.

The man gestured to the adjacent couch. "Willian Demari. It's fine. There are no audio sensors here. Haneul, I presume?"

A pause. "I didn't realize we had a man like you on our side."

"I'm not on your side," said Demari. "I'm on Alex's side, which I suppose puts me on your side for the time being. Now sit down. We've got a lot to talk through."

They sat.

"You said you'd be willing to help us extract our friend?"

"More than that," said Demari. "Alex made me promise I'd help get your friend out, so I can give your blade access to the System domain for her Tag. I can tell you where she is and get you through the security. But that won't take all night."

"You want to go after Alex," said Haneul.

"I want  _you_ to go after Alex," said Demari. "I don't want to see that boy dead, and right now the only safe place for him is on the Ground. But I'm keeping my head up here."

"What is he to you?"

"Is that important?"

They stared at each other for a moment. Before Haneul responded, his side vibrated again. He looked away from Demari to check the screen of his phone, which read—C01.

"It's Alex," he said, disbelieving.

Demari tensed. "Don't pick up—"

Too late. Haneul held the phone to his ear.

"Cheon..."

"... _no more, no more_ — _please, please, no more_ —"

It took him a moment to register what he was hearing. For the screaming and the begging to bleed into words, and for the words to enunciate the contours of that voice. Raw, wet, like he had never heard it before. All the blood left his lungs.

"Alex?" he whispered.

The screams caught. A strangled breath. A weak, torn, " _Ha...neul?_ "

He inhaled, his vision flickering.

" _Did you hear that, doctor?_ "

A new voice. But there could no mistaking who it was. His response came out a breath—then built into a ragged, roaring scream. " _You_ —you son of a bitch—you motherfucking—I'll  _kill you_! I'll fucking kill you! You're fucking dead—do you hear me, Vaughn Scio? You're  _fucking dead_ —"

"Haneul! Your hands—"

" _Why so upset, doctor? This is what you left him to for three months, when you were too much of a coward to save him._ "

"You fucking psychopath. I'll  _fucking_ —"

" _Kill me? No, no. You are going to turn yourself in to the Council for questioning by midnight, tonight. And until you do, no matter how prettily he begs me to stop, I won't. Don't even try to come near us. I'll cut off one of his limbs for every security line you breach._ "

"You'd fucking dare—!"

A furious voice echoed on the other line. A scream, sudden and pained, nearly pitching out the Regent's awful grunt. Haneul lost his breath.

" _I suggest you hurry, doctor. He's making a very bloody mess on my bed._ "

The line went dead.

The phone slipped out of his hand.

He stared at the glass of the cracked, blood-splattered table, his knuckles numb. The screams echoed in his head. Alex's voice, his desperate pleas. And that horrible sound near the end of it, the vicious  _on my bed_.

"He's..."

Someone picked up his phone.

"What did he say?" said MM.

Haneul swallowed. "He wants me to turn myself in by midnight."

"That won't happen," said Gale. "We'll get Alex out of there—"

"He says he'll take his limbs."

Demari cleared his throat. Haneul looked up.

"He won't," said the director. "He won't know you're coming."

Haneul stared at him. Closed his lips, and exhaled. This was not the time to lose his mind, no matter what he had heard. No—Alex needed him. No matter what, he couldn't fall apart now.

"How long will it take?"

Demari paused. "Arleon Tower is the best-guarded residence in the Upper, and Scio's private security was recently upgraded precisely because he would be housing Alex. The good thing is that I oversaw much of the upgrades, but even so, it will take me about two hours to make sure you can make it through cleanly. It needs to be clean, you realize that."

Haneul nodded.

"But," said Demari, "as soon as we get to Alex, your friend will be in jeopardy."

"We'll split up," said Haneul. "I'll go after Alex." He turned to Gale and MM, who looked at each other, and nodded. Back to Demari, "Is it possible for you?"

"I'll need three hours in that case. Possibly four, but I'll work as fast as I can. What do you plan to do with Scio?"

Haneul lidded his eyes, his jaws tensing. "I've already told him."

A pause.

A nod.

"It's probably for the best. Then, let's get to work."

 

* * *

 

The echoes from the corridor seemed like the fragments of a dream, but before Alex could decide whether it was real or not, a muffled gunshot rang out and startled him into a panic. He pushed upright against the drugged haze, winced from the clamor of a second shot. He had no sooner collapsed off the edge of the bed than Vaughn stumbled back into the bedroom, cursing. It took Alex a moment to realize that there was blood on his shoulder, staining the red of his mulberry shirt—and by then, Vaughn had grasped the handle of the door to slam it locked.

But the head of a gun stopped the shutting. Callused fingers gripped the edge of the door, and a black-clothed arm forced its way through the crack. Vaughn pushed back, veins bulging—and then the angle of the gunpoint maneuvered diagonal, and barely in time, Vaughn dodged backward to avoid a third shot. The door snapped open.

It was Haneul.

It was Haneul, and Alex was so relieved, so horrified, so utterly, desperately confused at the raw fear in his head, that he could do nothing but stare as those dark, intense eyes swept his naked body. A word lodged in his throat. He fought the urge to scramble backward.

In his peripheral, Vaughn shifted. Haneul's eyes snapped down. He lurched forward, and Alex shut his eyes.

" _You fucking shit_ —"

Shouts. Grunts—rough, and pained. Hard motion blurring the light past his lids, and the awful, rhythmless thudding of a vicious violence. When Alex reopened his eyes, Haneul had Vaughn pinned down, fingers digging into his injured shoulder, knuckles slamming into his face, spraying blood with sadistic fury. That wasn't him. That wasn't his doctor. That was—that was—

"No," whispered Alex.

The fist in the air froze. Vaughn, bloodied and gasping, looked at Alex. And so did Haneul.

Their eyes met briefly, but Alex spoke with an averted gaze.

"Stop it. You'll kill him."

"It's what he fucking deserves."

The faint accent, never replicated in the network. Alex glanced up.

"No, Haneul, he—"

A jerk. Haneul gave a pained shout. Vaughn had twisted his arm and upset their balance. The moment dissolved into chaos as the two men scrambled for the upper hand, the gun, and each other's lives. Alex watched helplessly, searching the room, trying to think of something, anything—but seconds later, Vaughn hit the side of the bed with a grunt, and a click echoed through the room. Everything froze.

Two steps away, rising to a stand, Haneul pointed a gun at Vaughn's disoriented face. His knuckles were white with the pressure. He was going to pull the trigger.

Alex threw himself in front of Vaughn.

"No! Don't kill him, Haneul. Please, no more. Don't hurt him."

Haneul stared at him. Alex couldn't see his expression. But his gun lowered quickly.

Relieved, Alex turned to Vaughn, who was staring at him with bewilderment. The left side of his face was badly bruised, one eye bloody, lips cracked red. The right side of his face slowly twisted with pain as he opened his mouth. The words couldn't seem to leave his throat.

"That's enough," said Alex, softly.

Vaughn's eyes filled. He reached for Alex's face, a graze of his trembling fingers.

A shadow covered them. Vaughn began to look up. A click signaled the trigger of a different gun, and a tranquilizing needle sank into the Regent's chest. Alex shared one more look with those tired, gray eyes before they fell shut.

Alex looked down.

He knew it was Haneul beside him. He knew it was the man he loved, the one he had been longing to see all this time, because only the real Haneul would give his words such power. And yet in the moment, he dared not lift his head. He was afraid of finding that embedded fear. Afraid to know the torture still wasn't over.

After a pause, something textured covered his shoulders. It smelled of disinfectant, sweat, rust. A taste the network had not replicated. A memory that hadn't been tainted.

A nameless feeling filled his lungs, and shivering, Alex closed his eyes. He pulled the jacket closer, pressing his lips to the fabric, because he could not kiss the man.

Softly, Haneul said, "Can you walk?"

Alex nodded.

"I'm going to bring him to the falcon. Get dressed and meet me there, okay?"

"Livia?"

"Gale and MM are going after her now."

Alex nodded again and shifted off of Vaughn.

Moments later, he found Haneul waiting on the parking deck, a silhouette he glimpsed before lowering his gaze. Haneul must have noticed. Wordless, he held the passenger door open for Alex. Wordless, Alex glanced at the back seats to find Vaughn tied and unconscious. Wordless, they flew through the high luxury of the Sky, into the depths below. Haneul pulled up his phone at a point, seemed to speak with Bennie. The shadows of the upper lanes obscured their travel, and Haneul glanced over his shoulder and said, "They have her. They're on their way down now."

Alex closed his eyes, relieved.

A few more moments passed in silence.

"What are you holding there, Alex?"

Alex opened his eyes. He looked down, where his two hands cupped together near his heart. He lifted his top palm carefully. Hesitated, and then extended his cupped palm for Haneul to see, where the broken shreds of his beautiful bird laid.

"I'm sorry," said Alex.

A pause.

Haneul reached for his offered hand. Wove his fingers through Alex's, the motion falling the shreds to the floor. He pulled Alex's hand close, and though Alex still dared not look, he felt the kiss, the graze of lips and stubble, a gentle warmth nothing could replicate. There, with their hands locked, Haneul murmured above his skin, "It's okay,  _cheonsa_. It's all okay."

 


	33. 33

They went to the old nuclear shelter underground, which over the years had been rebuilt into a near-impenetrable operations base. Alex, exhausted, didn't make much of anything before he fell asleep in a little room. He woke to soft footsteps and the aroma of fresh food, a familiar silhouette, and the frame of the door shutting away.

"Bennie," he said.

The dim lights flickered on. She grinned and brought a tray to his bedside table.

"Good to see you're still kicking, Alex. How's the head?"

"Decent," he said, scanning the walls as if a window could appear. "Where is Haneul?"

"Fill up your stomach first, won't you?"

Broth and a soft bread, a delicate meal. It was not the fine and exact taste from Vaughn's kitchen, which was simultaneously a sting and a relief. Last night, they had assured Alex that the Regent would be securely confined until they had decided what to do with him. He had an urge to ask Bennie if they had treated Vaughn's wounds, fed him a meal, but thinking of the pain that man had caused them, he suppressed the question.

Instead, "What time is it?"

"Quarter to ten. Morning. You've had a good rest."

"Has there been any trouble since last night?"

"It was clean. The boys are back at their usual, and Livia's getting some rest. The Sky's in a panic, I'm sure, but we're secure down here. Oh, and Mr. Director sends his regards. Who would have known?"

Alex shook his head. "Not me. He helped my dad break me out, back in August. It was a bit of a gamble, trusting him. I'm sorry I put you in the line of fire."

Bennie chuckled and ruffled his hair. An unfamiliar gesture—he ducked a little, surprised. "It was the right call, angel. Hey, I'd take a few bullets for you."

He smiled before remembering that others had taken bullets. He looked down at his hands and said, "Maria and the others...I'm sorry about them. I'm not..." He paused. "What happened, exactly? In June, after I called?"

"They had a double-op planned. We were supposed to make a supply run to 42 Eastern that evening. The traps had apparently been laid and everything, and we would have walked right in if it weren't for your call. But they also hit the clinic at the same time. Haneul and Gale, they were headed for midground. But most of the other staff..." She shook her head. "That bastard, Peter. Fucking sold us to save his own ass."

"Where is Peter now?"

"Somewhere down here. Favor to his old man, we've been keeping him comfortable. But like hell we're letting him out before it's all over."

Alex nodded. He had no desire to see Peter Kozlov again.

"And...Haneul?"

"He wanted you to have space. Or he'd be here, you know. Took the day off from the clinic, actually."

"The clinic? Another one?"

"Are you even surprised?"

"I...suppose not."

Bennie chuckled. "Right? Yeah, so he's around, whenever you're ready to see him."

Alex paused. "I'm ready."

She arched an eyebrow.

"I'm awake, aren't I?"

Bennie shrugged and took away the food tray. She picked up a folded pile of clothes and set it on the bed. "Dress up, then. I'll be right outside."

So he did.

They went down a fluorescent hall with uncut rock still jagged along the ceilings. It was a functional place, but not in the least aesthetic with the wires of machinery and the metal of quick infrastructure. According to MM, the shelter had been under construction before history made it irrelevant; a reason why there were no blueprints, no record of its existence anywhere.

Eventually, they came to a railed path, a walkway along an opening. From it resonated rumble and whir and echoing voices. Someone passed them, nodding at Bennie and giving him a curious, unknowing look. Two more men were on the opposite side of the path, just turning into another hall. Then came a distant shout, and some dozen gunshots went off, startling him to jolt.

"Training," said Bennie. "These are the guys we're taking on operation day."

Alex peered over the rail. Below, he caught a glimpse of lined men and women, none of them familiar. In the past years, his interactions with the resistance had been limited to Haneul and his clinic, and those five he'd met in Victor's bar. It was surreal to witness the other recruits now, an essential half of the fight that had all been theoretical from the sprawl of the network. It was cathartic, to feel that he was finally seeing the whole picture. Frightening, to see the weapons on a field far out of his experience.

They turned into an elevator, and as the door shut, Alex breathed.

_Operation day._

It was coming. Not as smoothly as it should have. He would have preferred a few more months with the resources of the Sky. But he was alive. He was safe, his memories intact. Marion was secure. The bulk of the resistance was intact. Haneul, alive and well, even Vaughn. Demari, a new asset. For all that he had lost to get here, he could finally see the end in sight.

But apart from practical wins, as the numbers flicked closer to their destination floor, his heart wrung to think of the emotional battles ahead. Between Haneul and Vaughn, the truths of what had happened, the implications on what would happen...there was a tragedy somewhere, waiting to be written.

They went out the elevator and down another hall, past some more unfamiliar faces. Near its end, Bennie gestured silently toward an ajar door. Alex could see faint light through it. He heard nothing except a mechanical whir.

He knocked gently.

"Come in," said Haneul.

Without any unique inflections, those simple, unaccented words sounded just like it had in the network. Alex felt his throat dry. He looked at Bennie, who nodded and walked away.

Alex pushed open the door and went inside, eyes on the floor of a private bedroom. Eyes up, passing the single figure, sweeping over the small holoscreens behind him—two lists, text too far and small to be read, a chemical diagram—over a desk with sprawled tools, a half-eaten breakfast—until he had closed the door. Then he looked at Haneul, who was waiting patiently in his metal chair.

Ah, his eyes. The light from the screens looked like light from the network. Simulated and dim rooms.

Alex looked away again. Tried to breathe right. Away with the thunder in his chest. Hands, gripped white behind his back, not shaking.

Haneul straightened slowly. " _Cheonsa? Gwaenchan-ha._ "

The tension eased faintly.

"That helps," murmured Alex.

"If we had the rest of this conversation in Korean, would you be able to keep up?"

Alex smiled, still keeping his gaze averted. "No. Unfortunately, I've been too busy deciphering the System to decipher Korean. But it's okay. You...your accent. It makes it easier."

He hadn't realized it before, when his memories were lost. But knowing to listen for those faint blurs and intonations now marked all the difference.

"That's good," said Haneul, though it sounded a little strained.

A pause.

"Mind if I sit?"

"Go ahead."

Alex settled himself on the edge of the bed. Haneul went to turn on the lights, which, though still dim, did something to ease the old horror. He approached the bed as well, taking a seat a cautious distance away. A silence fell between them, because there was too much to say, too much to ask, and Alex had no clue where to begin.

"The video you sent me." Haneul cleared his throat. "I'm not sure what I would have done without it. So thank you."

Alex remembered making it. Making a promise.  _Have faith._ He remembered the edge of the skylane, his father's dead body, and...

He bit his lip, ashamed.

Haneul seemed to interpret his silence differently. "I'm...sorry I couldn't do anything for you."

"It's not that," said Alex.

"Then?"

He opened his mouth. But how was to explain it? That he had given up? That it had been too much? That it destroyed him—terrified him so badly, what they had done to him—that he threw away the promise he had made? How did he explain that, without steeping Haneul in pain? It was impossible.

So he changed the topic. "About Marion..."

"She's safe. Do you want to see her?"

"No, it's alright. I was thinking, about her last installments. I can make the adjustments down here, but the code needs AC14 operator speed and AC12 bandwidth to align. That means before we can hit the System, I need about three hours of access to the engines of the upper Sky, as close to the Imperial as possible. And, as for her support base..."

"We'll make it work," said Haneul.

Alex nodded, and fell silent.

"What happened?" said Haneul, at last broaching the monster.

Alex paused. He didn't know what to say, so he delayed a little longer. "What do you mean?"

Silence.

"Vaughn Scio. You told me you trusted him."

"I...I made a mistake," said Alex. "It was my mistake. I pushed him over the line, and..."

"He raped you," said Haneul, voice hard, "didn't he?"

Alex couldn't speak. It was the harshness of that word—rape—and the unbearable truth of it. He had spat it at Vaughn in fury, but to admit it before someone else—Haneul, of all people—and to do it without explaining all that came before...but how could he? How could he even begin to explain the truth of those years? It was beginning to feel more and more like he would have to live a lie around Haneul, for fear of making both of them too raw to heal. And he was terrified that Haneul would hate him for it, would not forgive him for how soiled his body had become.

The fear was irrational. But it was there, as surely as the imprint of the torture.

Haneul exhaled. Softly, "I'm sorry. That was..."

He'd leaned forward to touch Alex. Caught inside his own thoughts, Alex had withdrawn like a scared bird. The both of them froze.

Alex watched, horrified, as Haneul's fingers trembled and curled. His hand fell.

"Sorry," said Haneul.

"Haneul—"

"I need some air," said the doctor, and rose, and went, leaving Alex alone in the dim, cold room.

There he drew his knees and buried his head, thinking that nothing the man in the network had done had ever hurt as much.

 

* * *

 

He fell asleep in Haneul's bed, and when he woke, someone had set the covers over him and vanished the lights of the holoscreens and ceiling lamp. Someone had left him a bottle of water, which he drank gratefully, only to remember his worry from earlier that morning. Vaughn, imprisoned and injured, was likely being neglected somewhere.

Alex wandered the halls of the shelter until he ran into Bennie again. He asked for a first-aid kit, a bottle of water, some food, and Vaughn's cell and key. She gave him a long, odd look, but provided what he asked for without much probing.

He did feel a little crazy. Psychological conditioning? A derivative of Stockholm syndrome? No—it was not so simple. Last night had been the peak of what he'd felt toward Vaughn—fear, not as crippling as the fear he felt toward the false doctor, but true fear nonetheless; and fury, raw and lashing. But no hate. He hated what Vaughn had done to him, but he didn't hate the man himself. Even reduced to screams that night, clawing at his skin and cursing his name, Alex had felt no hatred.

Was it love?

Or was it guilt? Obligation? Nostalgia?

He couldn't say. He just knew that as the door opened to that weak, bloodied body, his heart still managed to ache. After all that he had done. Even after all his lies, his inexcusable indulgences of his own madness, Alex still couldn't wish this hurt upon him.

He brought the tray inside. Closed the door. Set the food and water down, and knelt by Vaughn with the first aid kit.

"...Alex?"

His voice was dry. Hands and legs bound with metal clasps. They had left him nothing but a single bucket. Small anger flickered in Alex's chest. But he smothered it down, remembering that this man was responsible for hundreds of deaths—the executions of loved ones.

Not responding to Vaughn, Alex touched his forehead. Fevered. He poured some water and found some pills in kit, and forced both into Vaughn's hand. "Take it."

"Alex—"

"Take it. I'm going to dress your wounds."

Vaughn hesitated, but did as he was told. Soon, he closed his eyes, wordless. Alex recalled what he could from his time in Haneul's clinic and disinfected his shoulder wound. No bullet—just a deep graze. When he moved onto Vaughn's battered face, a clear drop spilled onto his fingertips. He ignored it and kept cleaning, gently.

"I'm sorry," Vaughn eventually whispered.

Alex didn't respond. He wasn't ready for this conversation, and neither did he want to be ready for it. When he was finished, he said, "I'll drop off some fresh clothes later."

He collected his tray, bloodied wipes and all. Vaughn was quiet as he left.

Out in the hall, he had not finished closing the door before a movement in his peripheral drew his gaze. It was Haneul, leaning against the wall. It looked like he had been waiting.

The usual fear came. Alex smothered it down and steadied his voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Bennie called me."

Of course.

Alex tugged the door closed and pulled the archaic metal key out of his pocket. Haneul reached out a palm and gestured for it. "Not yet. I want to talk to him."

Alex hesitated.

"You're afraid I'll hurt him?" said Haneul.

"You won't?"

A pause.

"I'll keep my hands off him."

Reluctantly, Alex handed the key over. Tray under his arm, he stepped back and made way for the doctor. Haneul opened the door, then vanished inside the room.

Discomfort, like oiled rot, rolled in his gut. He wanted to stay. He wanted to hear. He wanted to control what words and truths went between those two men—but the door had shut him out, marked him unwelcome. With a shaken exhale, he turned down the hall, resolving to deal with the aftermath as it came.

 

* * *

 

All that Vaughn could see was the image of Alex, throwing himself before the gunpoint.

All that he could feel was the regret, draining him sober.

He was aware of the other man in the locked room, leaning with folded arms against the door. No words passed between them, not for a long while. A murderous tension sat, and despite it, Vaughn had little fear. Just a faint confusion when nothing transpired, just irritation which prompted him to say, "What do you want?"

Across the room, Haneul shifted his head, nothing more.

"I wanted to get a good look at you," he said, toneless. "You're not like the pictures, are you?"

"You made sure of that."

A cold pause.

After it, Haneul turned suddenly to leave. With the image of his hand upon the handle, a dark chuckle thrummed in Vaughn's chest.

"Is that it? You're not going to ask me anything?"

"We have nothing to talk about."

"You don't want to know why I spared your life all those years ago? Why I kept it quiet when Alex freed you from the Tag? You don't want to know how it came to be this way? Or why he was in my bedroom? Why he begged you to spare—"

The door shuddered as a fist slammed into it. Haneul's eyes snapped forward, vicious light bearing into Vaughn, who felt none of the threat, who only quieted into an empty smile.

"You're afraid," Vaughn said, "that he still loves me."

Haneul stared. "...Still?"

"Go on. Ask me your questions."

Silence. Haneul opened his mouth. Vaughn could see it at the tip of his tongue. But with a pause and a brief snarl, the doctor shook his head. "I'm not like you. I'd beat you to a bloody pulp if I could, but that pleasure belongs to him, if he wants it. He's the one you owe your answers to. And if he wants to protect you instead, that's his call."

The smile on Vaughn's lips faded. He watched the doctor's barely contained expression, the cold fury in his eyes not a shade dulled from yesterday, heard the strain in his voice, witnessed the resilience of something stronger than all that hate, and he suddenly felt—exhausted. Beaten.

"Then why did you come here?"

Haneul shook his head. He turned again, hand closing around the door handle.

"Go ahead," said Vaughn, "Run."

A pause—but still, the door snapped open.

"You have no idea what he's endured for you."

Haneul fell still.

"You're afraid he still loves me?" murmured Vaughn, gaze falling to the cement. "You have no idea what he feels for you."

Slowly, the door closed again.

"Do you love him, Haneul?"

"What do you think?" came the bitter response.

"I know," said Vaughn. "Shall I tell you, then, what he went through? What I watched happen? What I was responsible for? Every day, for two and a half months. Shall I tell you what it felt like when he begged me to kill him?"

The doctor's gaze turned sharply. The rest of his body fell still, deathly still.

Their eyes met, and Vaughn, recognizing what he saw, exhaled a small breath. It ached his bones, the skin that Alex had so tenderly cleaned in silence, the body he had almost died to protect.

Softly, he said, "Haneul, I'll tell you a lesson I've learned. We all have a darkness to us, and it comes out when we fear more than we love. Once, I loved him as you do now. I would have done anything to see him smile. I would have created a world where he could spend the rest of his life with the man he loved, even if it wasn't me. But I became a fearful man, and..." Vaughn looked down again. "One day, maybe, he will tell you the rest. And I hope you will have the courage to love him through it. All of it."

It was quiet.

A moment later, the door opened once more, and Haneul left. 


	34. 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a double update - make sure you read 33 first!

Not long after Alex had arrived on the Ground, it was decided that Operation Day would be scheduled for early November. This gave the resistance a little over a month to make the final preparations, but with the Sky's aggressions coming down heavier than ever before, there was no time to stall. As they had planned years ago, in the first week of October, rumors went sent from the underground, a slow ripple toward the Upper Sky: whispers of the true nature of the System, anonymous testimonies from those who had survived the Tag. The timing was deliberate, taking into consideration spread rate and the suppression efforts of the State. To minimize the risk of war, it was essential to ride on the momentum of moral disgust; therefore, the high peak of the rumors was meant to coincide with the date of the operation, when the System would fall and all would be unveiled.

Quickly, Alex found a rhythm to his new daily life. It was largely absorbed in his port machines, given the limited time he had to finalize Marion. In the first two weeks, he left the shelter only once, to connect to the network from a higher port and to move Marion temporarily to his offline domain, so that he could work on her from the disconnected underground. During that trip, he had been daunted by the signs of violence—nervous streets, people rushing quietly from point A to B, sharp jitters from any mechanical sound. It was the relentless Sky patrols, black, weaponized falcons hovering within sight through every ten minutes: if the populations of the Sky and the Ground were any more balanced, Alex doubted he would have been able to take two steps without being caught.

Meanwhile, on the personal end of things, he found camaraderie with Bennie, MM, and even Gale. They often had dinner together in the shelter mess hall, or in someone's private room. Victor had drifted, things being as they were with his son Peter, but the others provided Alex with an honest daily companionship he had not felt in years. No fear. No lies. No tension—none of that awful stiffness whenever Haneul or Vaughn came to mind.

Vaughn, Alex still saw daily to drop off his food and drink. They had moved him to a room equipped with a toilet, a small and unexpected upgrade. Because they kept his identity a secret, he was not often bothered. Sometimes, Alex would find some stray, unfamiliar faces clustered in front of the door, but at the sight of him, they would tame or scatter. Someone must have warned the recruits about Alex, because not a single one dared bother him.

As for the man behind the door, he rarely spoke either. He thanked Alex. This was it. No questions, no apologies, no otherwise begging him to stay or asking after his own fate. He seemed to have resigned himself, and though disturbed, Alex was not in the proper mind to confront the Regent about what he was thinking.

Similarly with Haneul—the doctor was almost equally quiet when he was around Alex, which was not often, as according to Bennie, he had returned to his work at the clinic. He seemed to live in the shelter, however, and Alex rarely slept until ascertaining one way or another that Haneul had returned safely to his room. It was surreal to know Haneul was a few steps away every night—and it was painful to feel the gap of distance that lingered between them. But neither of them, it seemed, had summoned the courage to close it.

One morning, early October, Alex was dropping off his emptied breakfast tray in the mess hall when he was approached by an older, dark-skinned man. He'd seen this man around since his first day down, and he was almost unsurprised when the man addressed him by name.

"Alex, right?"

"I...yes. And you are?"

The man smiled, the gesture moving his ears. "Stefan Hines. I've heard about you. Seen you around too, so I thought it'd be polite to introduce myself to the man who made it all possible."

"Stefan," said Alex, remembering the name from '83. "Bennie's told me about you too. You're the one holding the ends together down here, aren't you?"

The man laughed, a deep, collected sound. "That's more credit than I deserve. But yes, I oversee administrative logistics. It's a hell of an upgrade from my old job."

"You were with the..."

"The Brotherhood," said Stefan. "Well, one of them. Ground's got a lot of brotherhoods, not all as bloody as mine. I'm lucky I got out."

"This isn't exactly the safer option."

"Nah, but it means something. My boss here, he's worth the blood."

It took Alex a moment to realize Stefan's boss was Haneul. "Yeah?"

"Sure. He makes you believe your life's worth as much as his, no matter who you are. How many people can do that? But enough about him. Word is you're the one who's going to take down the System for good."

"I have the program for it. But implementing it—"

"That's on all of us. I know."

Stefan reached into his pocket. He pulled out a rectangular bar, wrapped in metallic paper, ribboned. He offered it to Alex, who took it with some confusion.

"That's handmade Bolivian chocolate straight from Raquel Aguilar himself. Not sure if you know what any of that means, but let's just say it's the Ground's equivalent of, uh, a luxury falcon or something."

"This..."

"Yeah, we scrapped together some of our coin to get it for you. Small thanks. Down here, you know, it's nothing like the good stuff you're used to. But we figured you'd understand what these little treasures mean to us, right? Or you wouldn't be doing all this."

Alex stared at the gentle curves of the ribbon. He did understand. Slowly, he looked up at Stefan. Smiled, and said, with as much sincerity as words could convey, "Thank you."

Stefan grinned. "Enjoy, angel."

He was gone before they exchanged another word, and that casual endearment followed Alex all the way to his workspace, where he achingly thought that this warmth he felt was almost perfect. Almost, and until this fight was all over, almost would have to be enough.

 

* * *

 

The days kept going.

Methodically, Alex fell into the same ends-driven mindset that had gotten him through all those hard years in the Sky. Emotions mattered a little less and less, and numbness swallowed the trauma of the past. He was able to smile genuinely with the others at dinner, just as he had smiled to thank Stefan, and he marked that as sufficient healing.

It was on a mid-October evening that, preparing for bed, a knocking came on his door.

" _Alex?_ "

Haneul.

His pulse rose instantly. He threw on the bathrobe he was just beginning to remove and opened the door. In his anticipation, his wide eyes fell unthinking upon the doctor's face—and a chill swept him. He blinked, forced his gaze to linger, before inevitably, he turned away.

"Haneul? Did you need something?"

"May I come inside?"

Alex stepped back. He closed the door once Haneul had entered. The doctor welcomed himself to sit at the edge of Alex's bed, and it became apparent to Alex that he was here for a while. Alex went to sit on the same mattress, but a small distance away from his company.

"I'm sorry it's taken me so long," Haneul said quietly. "I...needed to figure some things out."

Alex crossed his arms, an unconscious gesture. "Like?"

"Like how much of a coward I've been all this time."

A pause.

"Don't say that." Alex leaned forward, reaching for the callused hand at the edge of the mattress. He forced his fingers steady as he slid them over those knuckles. "You're always putting out your heart for people you barely know. You're the bravest person I know."

Haneul turned his hand, gently weaving in Alex's fingers. He took a breath.

"I want to know what happened."

A pindrop quiet.

"What do you mean?" said Alex, defaulting to that same, frail tactic as before.

"I want to know what happened," Haneul said again. "I want to know why you filmed that video in March. I want to know what happened when they took you in June. I want to know what they did to you after they Tagged you, aIl of it."

Alex withdrew his hand.

"Alex—"

"I'm not ready to talk about it."

A pause.

"Alex," Haneul said softly, "you might never be ready to talk about it."

"I just need time. This isn't the right time."

Another pause.

In his peripheral, Haneul stood. Confused, Alex watched him walk past—walk to the little drawer in the room. He pulled open the tray and began searching.

"What are you..."

A bottle of little blue tabs. Sleeping pills, nearly finished. Haneul gave it a shake before setting it on the drawer top.

"You can't sleep," he said.

"I can. They've been working—"

"How many?"

Alex fell quiet. Haneul returned to his seat.

"I'll stay up with you," said Haneul. "I'm staying here until you tell me everything."

Alex stared at him. Aversion, fear—dulled by something else. A spark of anger, indignation—but that soon faded. He looked away, down at his fingers, defeated and—something else, nameless but soft. Tired. After a moment, he slid back on the bed and drew up his legs.

Where could he even begin to answer those questions?

March, 2585.

"I was in a relationship with Vaughn," he said at last. In his peripheral, Haneul turned, waiting. He exhaled and continued. "An arrangement, more like. It was my fault. He had always been willing to protect me. He offered to secure you citizenship in the Sky too. When I killed Regina Kalengar, he was the one who covered for me. He stole her investigation notes and passed them to me, and that was when he found out I had been lying to him. I...in hindsight, I think he would have forgiven me, but I was scared. I was callous, and I told him that if he turned a blind eye, he could have me. Or that's what my words sounded like, at least."

"Sounded like?"

"I didn't mean it that way," said Alex. "But that was what ended up happening. He was good to me, for the most part, but the friendship we had, the one I trusted in, it was gone. So that's why I made the video. Among many others."

"He was good to you, for the most part?"

"It seemed that he wasn't himself sometimes. Toward the end, he wasn't himself most of the time. It's why the Sky started sweeping the Ground, I think. The Vaughn I knew, he would have never let that vote pass. But, those days leading up to June 16th...Well, I found out about Peter Kozlov through his comm logs. He found me looking through them and kept me sedated for a few days, and that's when I figured something must be happening soon. I was able to confirm it with Demari, but getting the warning to you...I was out of options."

He explained the events of that day, from Demari's call to the sleeping gas. By then, the relay of his memories was beginning to feel methodical, easing the transition into the next segment.

"When I woke up, I was already in interrogation. They started me off as expected. I was ready for that. But Maria...they told me that if I didn't give them Marion, they would kill her. So I gave them domain access, but you must have already moved her. Then they asked me where you were." He paused, looking down. "I'm sorry. I couldn't tell them."

Haneul reached out a hand, an offer. Alex glanced at the comforting scars and took it. The warmth of a reassuring grip ran along his skin.

"Go on."

A tremor ran through his body. He breathed, keeping his eyes on the soft lavender fabric of his robes.

"I miscalculated. After the chemicals and Maria, they tried a new technique. Inside the network. They made an avatar replica of you and used it to hurt me." He paused. "I tried to resist it. But it went on for a long time. Most of the time, what they did didn't hurt as half as much as the chemicals. But the psychological horror of it got to me. And they used drugs on me the entire time. I wasn't able to keep my head straight." Another pause. "The screaming you heard that night on the call, it wasn't because Vaughn was hurting me so badly. It was because he was making me remember the torture. I can't get it out of my head."

He paused once more, longer this time.

"You've probably figured out most of the rest. My father and my boss tried to get me out." He recounted the escape attempt, and then paused before he drove the falcon off the rail. "Losing my dad like that, I...I didn't believe it was real. I thought he would be safe from the Sky because he was innocent. I thought his blood and eyes, and the hole in his head, it was all just a network simulation, maybe, and I could feel myself on the verge of giving in. I'm sorry, Haneul."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing."

In the end, staring at the curves of his own knuckles, Alex couldn't quite say that he had plunged  his vehicle toward a final escape. "They took me back. They decided to Tag me some time after that." He recounted those days after waking, the facade of a comfortable life. "The story they ended up feeding me was that you had kidnapped me in June and tortured me. The Sky rescued me back. My father was killed during the rescue. I believed it for a while, but I couldn't ignore the inconsistencies. And, of course, your visit."

He stopped there, closing his eyes.

A moment passed. Another.

When he spoke again, his voice barely came.

"It's okay. It's over now."

Nothing.

The lie of it hung heavy.

So he swallowed and whispered, "It just kills me that I can barely look at your face."

A pause.

"What can I do?"

Alex opened his eyes. Haneul was watching him. Instinct hit, sharp and awful, but Alex forced his gaze to stay. He parted his lips.

But he couldn't do it. Couldn't ask.

"Alex. I won't run away this time. I promise."

He felt his eyes begin to sting and blur.

"I..."

The hand around his tightened gently.

"When he touched me with your body," whispered Alex, "I thought of the night you took me to see the sky. I thought of the way you kissed me. The way you would love me." He swallowed. "It was what got me through. Even after I wasn't sure I could hold on anymore."

Their eyes held, a difficult, full moment.

At last Haneul nodded and said, "Wait here."

"Haneul?"

He'd withdrawn his touch. He'd withdrawn from the bed. For a moment, Alex remembered the day he walked out of his bedroom, and hurt struck him hard.

"I'll be back soon," said Haneul.

Alex nodded numbly.

When he was alone again, he drew his knees to his chest and wondered what he had just done.

The seconds passed into minutes. Minutes approached the hour.

At last, Haneul returned in a jacket he had not been wearing earlier. It seemed that he had left the shelter.

Closing the door, he came to sit by Alex.

"The sky's a bit far for us to drive to tonight," said Haneul, digging through his pocket, "so I brought her to you."

He offered his palm.

It was a straw bird. Smaller than the one he had given Alex in January, lighter in color. But intricate, beautiful, and certainly made by the same hand. Overwhelmed, Alex leaned over to take it. The distinct straw prickles kissed his skin.

"Keep her in your hand," murmured Haneul.

Alex looked up. Lips caught his.

He closed his hand. He closed his eyes. Shivered, tremored—and slid his arms around Haneul.

The ferocity of that memory consumed everything else—all the fear, all the numbers in his head. For a moment he just knew Haneul, his Haneul, and the electric magic of his touch beneath the stars. For a moment he smelled the factory air beneath the sky, entangled with the musk of the Ground, and he felt the January winter wind, the innocence of a time before the corruption. There, his world was whole.

The tears brimmed over his eyes as they pulled apart, because he wanted it to be whole again, no matter where they were, no matter what he smelled or touched or saw. And as if knowing this, Haneul kissed his jaw, his nose, his cheek, and murmured into his ear, "Just say yes, and I will make love to you."

Alex grasped him tighter. Buried his face in those shoulders, inhaled a lung full of the Ground, the sky, Haneul.

Whispered, "Yes."

It was an act of trust, unreasonable, inhuman. That somehow, Haneul could overcome the great chemical science of the Sky and all its embedded, endless hours of a nightmare imprinted into his skin. It was impossible, doomed to end in disaster and heartbreak—and yet somehow, somehow, it was love.

Every touch of his hand. Every graze of his skin. The fevered heat of those hands traveling down his sides, the kissing sweep of those fingers over his thighs, and the caress of those lips in the curves of his body, like a balm for a burning wound. He drew the warmth out slowly, patiently, until Alex could feel that long-lost flame of desire again, until it felt both daunting and stirring to say, "I want you inside."

Heat filled his cheeks after he spoke the words. But he worried that if not, Haneul would end the night another way. He wanted everything. Needed it—needed the past cleansed from his body, overwhelmed by something truer.

Haneul kissed him once more in response, then pulled a bottle from the pocket of his fallen jacket. He was bare now, his clothes having vanished in the earlier moments of his loving. The false doctor from the network, he'd always been covered. So the equal vulnerability of the body above, the beautiful accents of his irreplicable scars, the heat and hardness of his enduring years—those grounded Alex through the preparation, staved the chill as fingers curved inside him.

The first surge of the old terror came when Haneul entered him, and above, released a soft, gentle sigh. It was the sound of his voice without the distinction of his accent, the exactness of his shape spreading Alex open. Alex shut his eyes and swallowed the sound, curled his fingers deathly tight into Haneul's arms—felt him press deeper, felt on the verge of screaming—

And then a hand cupped his face, and a murmur began in his ear. Indistinguishable, foreign. A soft, relentless poetry of words he could not understand. But he didn't need to.

Like that, Haneul made love to him. And Alex held him through it all, and thought—how could he have ever mistaken anyone else for the man he had in his arms? How could he have ever let himself fear something so beautiful?

When it was over, Haneul held him close.

" _Cheonsa_ ," he said, as softly as he had loved, "You are my light. And I promise to you, no matter what comes, I will stand by your side. I will love you."

 

* * *

 

November's morning came, in the scarred arms and callused hands of the doctor.

Alex woke to that soft, enveloping heat beneath their shared covers. He had established a methodical rousing over the days: in the blur between sleep and reality, he would not look up, not yet. He would trace the irreplicable marks across Haneul's body until he was grounded in the warmth, and then he would press a kiss to his chest. And as Haneul stirred awake from the gesture, Alex would at last lift his head. He would thread through the doctor's sleep-mussed hair, graze the familiar dusting of his stubble. Watch his eyes open, his lids flutter, his gaze settle, and soften.

" _Joeun achim,_ " he murmured, smiling.

Alex smiled too, and leaned forward to kiss his lips. "Morning."

The fear, it had been fading since that first night. It would be some time before the curse vanished entirely—if ever it did—but he loved these mornings, and for now, it was all he needed. For a short moment in the day, there was no System, no Sky, no Ground—just him and his lover.

This day, Alex brushed at the strands of Haneul's hair. When they met, it had been a rich black. Silver lined it now—silver which did not match the apparent youth of his face, and silver which Alex had not seen in January.

"I just realized. After all these years, I've never asked your age."

Haneul grinned and said, "Can you guess?"

"Maria said you joined the clinic in your teens. So if we're going by the years it might take to accumulate the medical skill you had when we met...then add the past few years..."

Haneul chuckled. Alex arched an eyebrow.

"Thirty...six?"

"Impressive."

"I'm right?"

"Seven," said Haneul, and shifted to hover over Alex. Alex closed his eyes, chasing off the old pang until the soft, distinguishing touch came. Haneul laid a kiss upon Alex's cheek before his lips drifted to Alex's throat, and as his hands skimmed, as Alex gave in to the thrum of his body, he wondered at the notion of years. He wondered what a moment like this would feel like in ten, twenty, thirty. And he ran his palms along the arch of Haneul's back and wished, with all his heart, that they would find out.

One by one, the days ticked toward the first Monday of the month—the day on which the monthly Council meeting was held, and the day on which the Operation would take place. And while it seemed that for all the horror of the past years, everything was finally falling into place, there was yet one more piece that still jarred with Alex's peace.

It was on Sunday night that Alex resolved to address it at last.

He went to the room where Vaughn was held.

There the Regent sat in the corner of his mattress-bed, reading an old book Alex had slipped him some days ago. As always, Vaughn acknowledged his presence with a new light in his tired eyes, all his motions paused—but said nothing. This time, instead of leaving the meal and supplies without comment, Alex shut the door and sat at the edge of the mattress. He pulled his knees to his chest and crossed over his arms, and with his eyes on the far wall, wondered how to begin.

"It's tomorrow," he said at last.

In his peripheral, Vaughn laid down his book. "That's quite soon."

"No. We've been preparing for years. The code is ready—or will be. The people are ready. The resistance—the ones who know about you—they've a plan to use you for insurance, but I doubt it will be necessary. Or beneficial."

Vaughn scoffed gently. "I can't tell you anything you don't already know. And as for the Council, I'm not a hostage you can use against them."

"I know."

"So, then? What's the rest of your plan?"

Alex didn't answer that, and Vaughn sighed.

"You know you will have to eliminate the Council if you want any hope of avoiding war. Even if you bring down the System and expose it to the world, the Ground is no match for the Sky, and the Sky is just a set of keycodes and passes under the hands of the Council. I'm talking State military, infrastructure, arms access, corporate control—everything."

"I doubt the Council can manage to win five to eight hundred million. The truth is out. The Sky won't take their side, not when they know about me. Not when they know that the Council would turn the Tag on them as well."

"There will be chaos, violent or not. And then the people of the Sky will start to crave peace and security over justice and morality. They will start making excuses for the Council, because the Council is what is ingrained into our society as the protector of our current stasis. And then you, the one exception, will just be written off as—"

"I didn't come here to argue about this," said Alex.

Vaughn paused. "I..." He sighed. "I'm in no position to stop you from doing what you're going to do. I just don't want to see you on the ugly end of it."

"I know," said Alex. He tucked his chin over his knees. After a moment of deliberation, he said quietly, "We plan to detain the Council and instate the Assembly as the Skyside authority, to work alongside Haneul and the other representatives of the Ground. There will be a lot rage down here. A lot of unease, up there. But I think most would be willing to put aside their anger and fear for their loved ones, to find a resolution before it comes down to the weapons of the Sky versus the numbers of the Ground." He paused. "My father, he was a good man. If the others of the Assembly are like him, they will listen. We can move forward, together. Even if it is a little forced at first. Even if it takes years, decades, for the animosity to settle... It's the right direction. I know it is."

A quiet.

A soft, different, "And you, Alex?"

Alex turned toward Vaughn for the first time. Those sober gray eyes seemed worn by too many decades. "Me?"

Vaughn looked down and shook his head, once.

After a long moment, he said, "I'm sorry."

Alex didn't respond.

"I'm sorry," Vaughn said again, softly, "for the first time I took you to bed. I'm sorry it was so rough. I'm sorry, in the morning, I lied to you. I told you I only wanted to use your body until I tired of it. I'm sorry I hurt you with my words, and I'm sorry I didn't stay to listen to you. I'm sorry that I didn't believe you. That I didn't thank you when you brought me eclairs the next night. I'm sorry that I..."

"No, that's enough..."

"...that I didn't love you enough to love you right."

Alex lowered his head. His shoulders trembled.

"But Alex," said Vaughn, "I want you to know that I loved you with everything I had."

He closed his eyes and swallowed the sound as the tears spilled over his cheeks. He was hurting because it was Vaughn again, his Vaughn, but all that had passed could not be changed. He took a deep breath and said, "When I first began...everything. It was to save someone I cared about. To have him remember me. But you, Vaughn. You were the one who showed me I could do so much more. I could live for so much more. He was my pillar. But you were my inspiration. And I'm sorry...I'm sorry I turned it into a transaction."

A moment passed.

Vaughn leaned forward, no threat. He took Alex's hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed his skin there, a deep press, a tight hold. And then he released this hand and said, "I've kept you for long enough, and it's time I let you go. But before you leave, will you do something for me?"

Alex looked at him. "What is it?"

"If you would give me the chance to love you right, one last time, then leave the door unlocked."

Alex frowned, but Vaughn said nothing more. He attempted to make sense of those words. He had not enough confidence in any of his conjectures to respond. Quiet, he slipped off the mattress, and exited the room.

Out in the hall, he removed the key from his neck and held it to the lock. It would be foolish, after all, to grant that wish without knowing his intent. To let a Regent who had done such devastating, desperate things free the night before the climax of all they had worked for. To stake faith in a man who had, under layers of deception, nearly taken everything from him.

But in the end, against all logic, Alex withdrew the key and left the lock untouched. 


	35. 35

Monday morning, before the sun had risen, Bennie stumbled into the underground meeting room with a look of alarm.

"The Regent is gone," she said.

The room, which hosted MM, Stefan, Gale, Alex, Haneul, and two others, broke into a contained panic.

"What?" said MM. "How?"

"Sweep the shelter," said Haneul.

"But I don't understand," said Gale. "There is literally no way out—"

"It was me," said Alex.

The room fell quiet.

Alex folded his hands and said, "I left the door unlocked last night."

Another silence.

Through the lights of the holographic map between them, someone ripped a chair out of its place and threw it crashing against the floor. With a growl in his throat, that man said, "What the  _fuck_! We have no idea what he could do! Are you out of your—"

"That's enough, Rio," said Haneul, holding out an arm. His voice was hard, his shoulders tense. When he turned to Alex, his eyes were a terrible mixture of frustration, anger, confusion, hurt. He seemed to be searching for an answer, which Alex could not give. Daunted by the guilt, Alex looked away.

"What do we do now?" said Gale, toneless.

"We have to find him first," said the man named Rio.

"For all we know," said MM, "he's already back up with the Council."

"Do we pull the Op, then?"

"No," said Haneul.

Hands slammed on the table, shaking the lines of the hologrammed towers. "It's too dangerous now. How much of the plan rides on Myeong? And if he's freed that damned bastard, how do we even know we can trust him? All those months up there—maybe they fucked his brain over the line. Maybe he's—"

"If I planned to betray you," said Alex, quietly, "I would have kept my mouth shut. It was—"

A mistake? No. It was deliberate, and he could not say he regretted it yet.

"It was a personal decision," he said at last.

The inadequacy of those words silenced the room once more. At last it was Haneul who stepped in front of Alex, shielding him from those dissecting, accusing, doubting eyes.

"We go on with the plan," Haneul said calmly, "and we hope Scio keeps out of it. If we don't, or if he doesn't, then this will all have been for nothing."

"You're telling us to—"

"Hope for the best," said Haneul, "like we always have."

Across the table, Rio heaved a thick breath through his nostrils.

"Get your men prepared," said Haneul. "We move in forty."

Slowly, the room dispersed, each pair of eyes lingering on Alex before they vanished through the doors. In the end, only Haneul had not moved, and Alex, standing behind him with his fingers wringing his fingers, was coming up empty on words to mitigate what he'd done.

"Haneul," he said, but with nothing to follow.

Haneul exhaled and turned. Alex glanced up at his face. He was given a brief glimpse before arms encircled his body and brought him into a firm, heated embrace. "You don't have to explain," said the doctor. His voice was not soft. It bordered tension. Still, he pressed his lips to Alex's hair and there murmured, "I'll trust you. Like always."

Alex slipped his arms around Haneul's shoulders and held him tight.

In forty minutes, equipped with stolen connectors, the two-hundred constituents of the operation took their teams and vehicles and began to move out. Like all those times in the past years when morning came, Alex rode on Haneul's rider until they reached the storing houses for the falcons, and there bade his farewell. But this time, there was no frigid, painful distance between them—only the swelling warmth, the minutia of their smallest details. The creases of lips, the temperature of breaths, and the fierce curl of fingers, afraid it could be the last time, and yet resolved that it could not be. With a deep kiss and a whispered promise, Alex, one more time, left Haneul for the Sky.

 

* * *

 

The plan was contingent on Black Marion's ability to win out against the Astrid Tree's defenses.

To maximize Marion's processing speed, Alex needed to move her base into the same domain as the System itself, which meant removing all external security around the System domain for a short window. It was a delicate task, with that domain so tightly guarded each minute of the day. He could not afford to risk discovery before the task was done, else the Sky had the option of holding the Tagged Grounders hostage. He could not sync his final upgrades with Marion without the best equipment of the Sky either, so it was to the towers of CyberSec that he went.

En route, he placed the call to Demari.

" _Hello?_ "

"Sir, it's me again."

There was a pause. A shuffling. At last, in a hushed voice, the director said, " _Alex? What's going on? Are you safe?_ "

"Yes. Thank you. For everything. I'm on my way to CyberSec now, and I need you to do something for me."

" _Jesus Christ_ — _what are you thinking? It's a minefield of triggers up here, and if you get caught again_ —"

"I need you to do something for me," he said again, "please. I need one of the S1 ports moved down and locked for maintenance in T811."

" _This is mad. Do you know how much I went through to get you out?_ "

"I can only imagine. But please, sir. I will do this with or without your help, but it would be much easier with it."

A pause.

"You risked your life for me, twice. I swear, I'm not taking it lightly. So help me one more time, please, so that all of this was worth something."

Another silence passed.

At last a breath brushed over the other line, and Demari said, " _This one's for Gene, then._ "

Alex couldn't help the faint smile. "Thank you."

" _T811. Give me thirty. I'll cover your entrance at the gate, but be careful._ "

"I will."

Some thirty minutes later, Alex docked his falcon on the deck of CyberSec's Development Tower. Though it had been over a month since he had been to this place, seeing it now made those days in the underground feel like a dream. After all,  _this_ was where he had played the bulk of his game. Dressed in the fashion of the upper Sky and masked with facial reconstruction molds, he drew no attention as he approached the gates, once more fading into his old, quiet obscurity as another employee among the masses. But this place was not all as he had last seen it.

Guards manned the entranced, holding weapons in their arms. Alex slowed his step to watch the workers ahead report in for their morning hours, each one lifting their palms to be read by the newly installed machines at the gate center.  _I'll cover your entrance_ , Demari had said. Swallowing his racing heart, Alex clutched the hems of his jacket to soak away the sweat, and then approached the guards.

He offered his palm. Eyes scanned his face. The machine lights slithered across his skin.

With a green blinked, he passed.

Relief swarmed his skull. But it was not over yet.

As calmly as he could, Alex made his way to the T811 maintenance storage. Employees and drifters passed him by without notice, whispers among them of  _that atrocious System_ —just as planned, the rumors of the truth had reached even the tamed peaks of the Upper.The adrenaline of his pulse pitched with anticipation, as he felt the proximity of all that they hard worked for only hours away. Quickening his step, he reached the unfrequented corner of the tower where the storage room was.

His pre-coded connector gave him passage through the door. Inside, he found the S1 port delivered and waiting. He secured the lock and hitched the machine up to the power link in the room, sent a quick update to Bennie and the others, and was soon inside the sprawl of the network once more.

It was his home. All of it, his domain. The nerves from the real world faded into nothing, and with expert familiarity, the million gears of his mind clicked into place. First, he worked privately, syncing his final adjustments with Marion. Though it was impossible, she seemed to sense that her time was coming, and thrummed with internal activity too complex to be read. While she waited, Alex went onward the the System domain.

As predicted, new security layered the gates of the System domain. As predicted, architects had been stationed inside it in case of ghosted breaches. But having worked on all matters of the System for so long, all of this was merely layers of wrapping to be shorn a piece at a time.

In total, four hours passed, timed with the High Council's meeting in the Imperial. It was the fastest he had worked since saving Haneul in '82. No doubt his cracks were full of holes, but it didn't matter. All he needed was a moment. Six seconds. Six seconds for Marion to enter, embed her base, and seal off the domain. The rest, like a battle between two equally-armed champions, would be up to her.

The time came.

Alex retreated back into his platform where Marion awaited, watching his own black-lined mirror image wander curiously through the field. He had never considered the prospect of having children, but he supposed that she was likely the closest he would get—an artificial life form, yes, but there she picked up a tray of tools hanging in his shelf and prodded at them gently like a toddler, and it chilled Alex to the bone to think that the Tree could eat her alive today.

But faith. He had made it this far on faith. And he could only go further by holding on to it.

"Marion,  _Aleumdaun_. Come with me. It's time."

She turned. Outstretched her hand. As their fingers touched, the field of his platform vanished, and before them came the gates of the System domain. There he ran the final invasion script. Inside, though he could not see it, the stationed architects vanished from a forced disconnect. And seconds later, the gate opened.

He stood back. Watched as his Marion glided through the undone barrier. She glanced back once at him, with his face and his curls bobbing airlessly, and then disintegrated like the wind of a winter storm, advancing quietly on the Tree.

The door shut behind her. The alarms began to sound.

Alex fell back into his domain and placed the call.

"Haneul. Marion is in. I'm suspending the Imperial's security now. Let's begin."

 

* * *

 

From the shadows of the mid-Sky commercial decks, Haneul passed the message on to the others. In the four-hour interim of Alex's work, the resistance teams had spread across the State in preparation to confront each one of the Assembly Representatives, under the oversight of Bennie and Stefan. For those teams, there would be no violence—at most the threat of force. Their task was simply to secure the Representatives until the Council had been detained. 

Twelve falcons remained with Haneul, now positioned in wait around the Imperial Tower. At the green light from Alex, the next stage of the operation commenced.

Haneul, sharing the falcon with Gale and two others, armed in bullet proof vests and auto-target weapons, gave the signal through the conn line. The dozen falcons emerged from their positions and approached the Imperial decks, and with the Tower security managed by Alex, triggered no alarms. But the Sky had learned their lesson well, and the decks of the Tower were stationed with armed guards—four on the one that Haneul and three of his falcons landed upon.

Confused, the guards were slow to react. By the time one had began to reach for his conn, the others were already struck by tranquilizers. The eleven invaders took the last guard out before his message could be sent and broke through the Tower doors.

They had run this drill a hundred times before. Aim for the Council room. Avoid casualties. In practice, they had prepared for all kinds of overwhelming scenarios drawn from a lifetime on the brutal Ground. But the Sky, taken unawares, softened by luxury and dulled by their reliance on the System, was almost easy by comparison. It was not until Haneul's group had made it halfway to their destination before the manual alarms finally began to screech.

"Took 'em long enough," said MM, who had driven the four-man falcon that landed alongside Haneul.

"S'almost like playing kips," said Rio. "Too easy."

"Don't jinx it," snickered the woman beside him.

"Remember," said Haneul as they hurried up the stairwell, "we tranq the lot of them. No deaths."

"They'll be runnin' round like rabbits now," said Rio. "Best hope our guys at the decks got their falcons wiped."

That was the gamble—that before any one of the five Council Regents could escape from their meeting room, the forty-odd resistance members striking the Tower would secure them. It was chaos inside the Tower already—distant gunshots, shouting, civilian screams and panic. But they had split all the possible escape routes to cover among their numbers, timed everything down to the second, and Haneul's group was but a mere two minutes to the meeting room.

They would make it.

This was going to be a clean hit.

Any second now—any moment, they would run into their targets.

Haneul held his tranquilizer at the ready, finger pressed against the trigger. They turned the last corridor.

At the end of it were the double doors to the assembly room. Seeing them, Haneul's paced slowed. A frown settled into his brow.

The doors were closed.

Not, as he would have expected, thrown open in a flurry to escape.

Sealed, calmly, waiting.

He held out an arm to keep Rio from passing him. "Careful. Might be a trap."

The others slowed behind him.

As they neared the door, Haneul eyed the slim black sensors above it. No light. Alex would have disabled all the security mechanisms here. Then what could the Council be planning?

"MM. Can you run a scan?"

"On it," said MM, and fished a thermal imaging sensor out of his bag. He hovered its camera eye against the doors, and said a moment later, in a hush, "There's someone inside."

"One?"

"One."

Haneul tensed his jaw. "Step back. Weapons ready."

MM stepped back. Haneul took the handle of the door. He took a breath.

In the span of a half second, he twisted, pushed, stepped inside, and took aim at the far figure. And then he froze.

It was Vaughn Scio.

He was standing by the glass wall, overlooking the cityscape. Dressed in a rich suit, with his hair mostly kempt, the image of a Regent that had not been detained underground for a month. At his feet was the glassy-eyed body of a woman. Two paces away, a crumpled shape of a man. Beside that one, another woman, a tranquilizing needle in her chest. Two more men across the way, both slumped in their chairs, still breathing.

"What is going on?" said Haneul.

Scio turned. It was an uneven motion—his trouser was torn, wet. His movements revealed a deep red blossom on a mulberry shirt. "I arrived ahead of you," he said simply, limping his way over to a nearby chair. He sat with a heave, a tired sigh. Fished a bottle out of his pocket and popped a tab into his mouth.

Haneul kept his weapon aimed. He stepped further into the room, the others following, and peered at the limp bodies. The tranquilized woman was still breathing. The crumpled man, not. The one with the glassy eyes was clearly dead.

"It's interesting," said Scio. "I've killed so many people, but this is the first time I've done it by my own hand. I tried to avoid that outcome, you know. But I suppose in the long run, it will help appease the Ground to have their oppressors pay with their lives. As for the others, I'll be having them sent to Kindle. They'll lose their lives too, but have the opportunity to live a new one. Blank slates." He smiled in a corner of his mouth. "Not what they deserve, but I think he'd prefer that."

Haneul shook his head in disbelief. "You crazy bastard."

Scio chuckled.

"Don't act upset. I've played the villain for you and removed your largest barrier to success. The Council is gone, and the State key codes are here." He removed his connector and waved it in the air. "You would have had to torture it out of them, or else have Alex take it by force. But Kanisorto was enough of a patriot to restore my access rights before she died. That's the thing about Regents, you know. We might differ vastly in ideology, but we are committed to the preservation of the State. Ah, well, I suppose I had everyone fooled for quite a while on that count."

"Stop with your bullshit. What do you want?"

"A bargain," said Scio. He placed the connector on the table. "You can have this. In exchange for three things. Well, four, if you include asking those men to step outside."

Haneul narrowed his eyes. After a moment, he nodded at the others.

The door soon closed on him and the Regent.

"Talk," said Haneul.

Scio leaned back in his chair. The blossom on his shirt spread. It was mid-abdominal damage, not lethal with the medicine of the Sky, but at Haneul's mercy, he could be bled out without treatment if they stalled too long.

"Three requests," he said again. "First, you allow me to bury Kanisorto and Kalengar with all due respect, and to spare the others after their treatment at Kindle. They will remember nothing, not even their names."

"That leaves only you as our Council hostage," said Haneul.

"Second," said Scio, "you retreat today and allow me to remain standing Regent of the High Council for the next six months."

Haneul blinked, unsure if he had heard right.

"And undo everything we have worked for?"

"How could I?" said Scio. He reached for his connector and tapped at the keys. Moments later, a holographic projection appeared—small, but unmistakable. The Astrid Tree. Still, unmoving, in a lightless domain. "The System is gone. The only way forward is to tame the coming chaos. To leverage a peace that even the brutally wronged Ground could be satisfied with. Do you think you, with your stolen arms and no sway over the empowered Sky, are up to the challenge?"

"Do you think you are?" said Haneul, cold. "You, after everything you've done? You don't have the sanity for it."

"You can doubt my sanity," said Scio, unphased. "You would be right to. I've made many mistakes these past few years. I'd even thrown away the vision that brought me to the Council table in the first place. But I did make it to the Council table, Haneul, as the son of a Grounder. As the man who spared the blessed doctor's life the first time he needed sparing. The one who shielded the architect who tore down the System. The one who put down the Council. The truth might be twisted, yes, but if you play the game of politics, you know—what best inspires peace among chaos is a damn good story."

"A manipulation," snarled the doctor.

"How?" said Scio. "I'll give your men the key passes. They'll know my every move. Six months, and if within that time, I stray from championing a fair and equitable peace, they can cut me out however they'd like."

"I think we'd all feel more comfortable moving forward on our own terms."

"Would you?"

Haneul frowned.

"You've made good strategy," said Scio, "but from here on out, you have no matchless genius to guide your every step. It isn't a network game anymore. It's politics, and if you make one wrong move, it's civil war. Doctor, I'll ask you again—do you think you're up to the challenge?"

Haneul did not respond to that.

Scio's eyes fell. His hand pressed to his stomach, over the fabric of his mulberry shirt. His voice lost its leveraging balance, and became quiet. "I will not let his dreams die. Not after everything he's suffered."

Alex.

At this mention, Haneul released his hard repugnance.

_Do you think you're up to the challenge?_

He would rise to it. No matter what. But it was true that with a Regent on their side...

"Catch."

He looked up. He lowered his weapon and caught a glitter thrown across the room. Hard, cold. When he opened his palm, he found a most unexpected thing. A metal key, molded as those from the Ground.

"What is this?" he said.

"My third request," said Scio. "Let the Ground believe you died today."

"What?"

"Yes," said Scio, smiling faintly. "Alex knows where the key leads. Take him there, far away from this place. Away from the chaos. Today, your people will exchange their saviors for their freedom and a new champion. A man born of the Ground and the Sky. I will finish what you started."

"You can't possibly expect us to walk away—"

"You've both done enough." Scio pushed upright, a slow motion. He took his connector band and walked it over to Haneul. There, a step between them, their eyes met—and to Haneul, it was as if he were meeting Vaughn Scio for the first time, and the look in them was almost as familiar as the mirror. Softly, the Regent said, "Please, Haneul. Let him rest."

A madman. A murderer. A Regent, of all things.

 _It was a personal decision,_ Alex had murmured, quiet, but unrepenting.

A long moment passed, seconds bleeding into minutes.

A thousand memories of the past, a million uncertainties for the future.

_I hope you will have the courage to love him through it._

Haneul laid down his weapon. Wordless, he accepted those words, this band, and Vaughn Scio's final requests.

 


	36. Epilogue

Summertime, 2596.

The ocean salt blessed the breeze, a caress that gently stirred the worn pages of his journal. Character by character, Alex inked the script of the day, smiling as the lines took on an air more fluid than last month. It had been a week since he had written an entry, and there was much to say. Progress on his latest program with network therapy. Disaster with a new kitchen recipe, and oh the laughs he'd gotten from it. Most of all, tales of little Marion—a glow from her art project, a fright with two starfish, the incessant Korean lullabies hummed while she learned her second alphabet.

 _She takes after him_ , wrote Alex, and like spellwork, the ink preceded a mechanical rumble.

He closed his journal and looked over his shoulder, and there beneath the evening summer sky was Haneul. A broad grin adorned his face as he swung off his rider and latched it to the post. He carried two bags of groceries in his hands, but these, he set at the steps of their small cabin home before walking onto the beach. A moment later, he settled beside Alex, sliding an arm around him and kissing his brow.

"Welcome home, doctor," said Alex, smiling. "How was work?"

"Mm. Busy. Got a pack from a recent riot, but the injuries were light."

"A riot? Again?"

"You sound surprised."

Alex leaned against his shoulder, turning his gaze to the rolling sea, and sighing. "I suppose it  _is_ a good thing to be surprised over it, no? Ah, these past three years are starting to make me complacent..."

Haneul chuckled. "It'll be decades before the dust settles right. But if a few minor riots are the worst we have to complain about, I'll take it."

"And education funding," said Alex. "Christ, if someone doesn't get on that soon..."

"You will?"

"Maybe we could offer some network programs. I've a few more months left to go on the therapy project, I think, and..."

Haneul pulled his face up and kissed him, swallowing his wayward thoughts. When he pulled away, it was with an endeared smile that he said, "He asked me to let you rest, but you never do stop working, do you?"

Alex returned that smile, softened by the mention and his lover's unburdened eyes. He threaded his fingers through those silver-lined locks, and said, "I don't think of it as work."

Haneul's lips loosened gently. His gaze traced the lines of Alex's face. Murmured, "Where's Marion?"

"She's with Gale's kids for the weekend. It's just us."

The hand at his cheek slipped down, skin skimming sensually along his throat, the bared bones of his collar. Alex closed his eyes, smiled, hummed—and soon the warm sand was a sprawl beneath his back, washing over the locks of his hair. Out beneath the open sky, healed by the years, he felt only love, lust, and an unadulterated happiness as rich as the sun. No pain, no heartache, just the riveting heat of Haneul's body, the beautiful taste of his skin, the thrum of his deep, powerful loving, the swell of his climax, and the softness of his kisses in the aftermath, like ten years had not dulled the passion of his heart even a single shade.

A lifetime, thought Alex.

A lifetime and then some more. The fire between them that had changed a world would not die out.

" _Saranghae_ ," said Alex, and gently, Haneul echoed him.

They laid there for a time before the horizon, on the edge of the world, where all was at peace.

At last, Haneul said, "I should get the groceries inside. What do you want for dinner?"

"You've had a busy day, no? Go wash up, and you can find out."

Haneul chuckled, kissed him one more time, and obliged.

Alex rose after him, collecting his clothes and dusting the sand from his body. As he approached the house by the sea, his gaze turned to the landscape behind it—the image of the State, of the Sky and the Ground, and the line where two worlds met. He paused there, his eyes tracing the highest Tower in the far distance, where upon the tip, the Statue of Prosperity once spread her great arms, her face skyward. In its place now stood a woman whose gaze was cast down among the people of the State, and below her great arms hung a scale of equity.

_"How did you come to be a Regent?"_

_Vaughn chuckled. "You know, we've had this exact same conversation before. Can you guess what you will say at the end of it?"_

_"What will I say?"_

_"'You gave up too soon.'"_

_"What does that mean?"_

_"It means there was a time when I let you down. So I'm trying very hard not to do it again."_

Alex smiled softly. He laid his hand upon the wall of this little seaside house, as if so many miles away, he could touch Vaughn like this. Ten years had passed since they shared those words. In the revolution of a society, it was but the blink of an eye. But in ten years, one man's promise had rewritten the paths of centuries.

"Vaughn," he whispered. "Thank you."

And though these words would not carry from the horizon to the high sky, if ever the Regent should fly near enough edge of the world, he would see the warm lights flickering in his seaside cabin, and know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for following Alex et al on this angsty mean journey! As a writer, I obviously derive a lot of happiness from writing itself. But it's an entirely different kind of happiness to know that there are people enjoying the stories I'm telling, people who can maybe feel for my beloved characters as I do. I appreciate everyone reading this so much--and here's an especially big shout out to the people who let me know your support with a vote or who took time to share your thoughts. You might have noticed that I try to respond to everyone who comments; that's not because I have a ton of free time on my hand and like to comment, but because hearing from you means very much to me.
> 
> I hope this version of Black Marion has not disappointed (or at least not too much)! I'm always happy to hear your thoughts, positive or negative. At some point in the future, I may put up a compact version on Amazon, but I plan to keep the story accessible on sites such as Wattpad, AO3, and fictionpress.
> 
> If you're interested in other lgbt dystopian sci-fi work by yours truly, please do check out Blood Aster :)


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